Indivisible
by Zeplerfer
Summary: Four versions of America - the colony, the cowboy, the hero, and the rebel - all living together under one roof. What could possibly go wrong when England takes it upon himself to help America return to normal? USUK.
1. The Call

**Summary:** Four versions of America - the colony, the cowboy, the hero, and the revolutionary - all living together under one roof. What could possibly go wrong when England takes it upon himself to help America return to normal?

**Rating:** T for second base and America's cowboy chaps.

**Pairing:** USUK.

* * *

Once a week, without fail, England called America. They were important allies, he told himself. He needed to stay in touch. Obviously his own personal feelings played no role in the matter.

So on a drizzly afternoon, England pressed speed dial and carefully held the phone away from his ear. America had a loud voice and an annoying habit of answering his phone with a 'Wazzup, dude?' or some other silly phrase du jour. Since complaining about how America butchered _his_ language never did much good, England took the next best approach and turned down the volume.

"I've got it!" a child's voice called cheerfully on the other end of the line.

Moving the phone closer to his ear, England's first thought was that he had dialed the wrong number. But how was that possible? America had been on his speed dial for decades. "Hello? Who is this?" he asked.

"Ahh! Engwand! It's really you!" the child shouted.

"Ah... is Alfred there?" England asked, his frown deepening. America would have some serious explaining to do if he was letting _children_ know about the existence of national personifications. Or perhaps it was an aggravating micronation, the American equivalent of Sealand. England hoped not. Sealand was bad enough on his own. Surely an American Sealand would be even worse.

Oblivious to England's concerns, the child continued to chatter excitedly. "Yep! Will you visit us, Engwand? Please come visit! Please, please! Oh hi Al, did you want..."

England heard shouting on the other end and then the line went dead. He stared at the receiver and tried calling again. This time he rang through to voicemail. He cleared his throat and left a message.

"Give me a call when you have a chance, Alfred. I'd like to discuss some aspects of the proposed Transatlantic trade deal," he said, carefully leaving off any mention of the child who had answered the phone. America would never call him back if he thought that England was going to give him a tongue lashing. His rants worked better as a surprise.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

When three days passed without a response, England decided that he wasn't _worried_, but he might have been just a bit _concerned_. America was an important trade partner, after all.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

By the end of the week, England found himself standing in front of America's home in Virginia, wondering why exactly he felt it necessary to cross the pond to check up on an annoying idiot. Especially when that idiot had always insisted he could take care of himself and didn't need help from an 'old man' like England.

Before he could second-guess himself further, he rang the doorbell.

Hearing America's loud footsteps, England breathed a sigh of relief. It turned into a gasp of surprise when America opened the door. America usually adopted a clean-cut boy-next-door style, but today he was dressed in ripped jeans and a black t-shirt for a punk rock band called "Anti-Flag." He looked younger than usual, probably because he wasn't wearing his glasses. England wondered vaguely if something was wrong with Texas.

"Why are _you_ here?" America asked accusingly. He didn't wait for an answer before slamming the door in England's face.

England felt the anger rise in his stomach as he glared at the oaken door. He had taken an eight-hour flight to check up on America, and he wasn't going to allow the younger nation to respond by shoving his concern back into his face. With a quick gait, England walked around the side of the house, jumped over the white picket fence, and made his way into the backyard. He knew that America always kept the back door unlocked.

America liked everything large, so his immense backyard matched the scale of his Virginian mansion. It had been a farmstead once and still showed it, with a vegetable garden and herb garden near the kitchen door. Cattle no longer grazed on the pasture fields, though America did still keep a few horses in his paddock. England caught sight of a person in a cowboy hat leading a horse into the stables. It looked like America, but England already knew that America was in the house. Perhaps it was that nation that looked like America... what's-his-name. He frowned for a moment, then gave up on trying to remember the nation's name. It would come to him eventually.

Turning back to his original mission, England yanked open the kitchen door. He took two steps in and found America staring right back at him. England knew that it was a large house, but it still seemed strange that the blond nation had found the time to change into his bomber jacket and khaki pants while England walked from the front door to the back.

"America, what do you think you're doing?" England demanded with a scowl. He and America weren't always on the best terms, but slamming a door in his face was a new dip in their 'essential' relationship.

With a grin, America lifted up a plate holding a submarine sandwich filled with heaping amounts of sliced meat and cheese. "I'm making a hero sandwich!" he said proudly.

"No. Not that. I want some explanation for your rude behavior."

America tilted his head to the side and gave England a perplexed look. "Rude? Uh, do you want some?" he asked, offering England the sandwich.

"I'd love some and a beer to wash 'er down," a new voice drawled.

England watched as America pushed past him and walked into the kitchen dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, a white shirt, and a ten-gallon hat. England gaped. He had spent very little time with America during his western phase and he'd forgotten how _amazing_ the nation looked in a cowboy get-up. England's gaze fixated on the younger nation's chaps. The swaying fringe drew extra attention to America's butt, not that his taut behind needed any help in holding England's interest. England felt his head involuntarily turn as he watched the cowboy open the fridge and pull out a beer. Entranced by America's rear, he was taken by surprise when a small weight bowled into his legs.

"Engwand! Engwand!" a child cried, latching on to the older nation with a flying hug.

England staggered to the side and looked down to see a mop of blond hair attached to his hip. He felt his heart flip. The child looked _exactly_ like America as a little colony. The child looked up at England with a sweet smile and his blue eyes sparkled, just like America's. England knelt down so he could look the child in the eyes. The resemblance was uncanny. "Were you the one who answered the phone?" he asked.

"Yep! I'm glad you came," the child replied brightly.

"Typical. His little colony walks into the room and England doesn't notice anyone else," a fourth person added. England looked up and saw the Anti-Flag America who had answered the door. The teenager leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. He glared at the child. "Careful, Am, you've got a little _brown_ on your nose."

England returned to his feet, his eyes sweeping the room as he protectively rested his hand on the child's shoulder. One America ate his hero sandwich, the other drank his beer, and the teenager continued to glare. This wasn't what England had been expecting when he scheduled his flight, but it seemed that America did indeed need his help. "I would like an explanation... and introductions," he said.

The America in a bomber jacket smiled. "Sure thing, England! Let me introduce America, America, and America," he said, pointing at the child, the teenager, and the cowboy. "And obviously I'm America!" he added, giving England a wide grin and a thumbs-up.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

Three more sandwiches and two beers later, England and the Americas sat around the kitchen table as the bomber-jacket-wearing-America launched into a ridiculous explanation. Naturally, America attributed his clones to alien technology and/or a communist plot. Most of it sounded like nonsense; still, England had to admit that there were four Americas running around, so _something_ untoward must have happened. Near the end of the long-winded explanation, England decided that as a responsible nation, he had to stay to help America fix the problem. The younger nation certainly couldn't be trusted to take care of it himself. Which meant that England needed to deal with a more immediate problem:

"I can't call _all _of you America," he said. "I'm going to need different names."

The Americas glanced at each other, likely wondering who was going to be _the_ America. The official bearer of the stars and spangles. The sweet land of liberty. The one of whom his country sang.

The teenager spoke first. "I'm the United States of America to _you_," he said, glaring at England sullenly as he claimed the most formal name.

"Big Al," the cowboy said with a wink.

"And I'm the World's Hero. But you can call me America," the America with a bomber jacket said. England decided that this America represented the World War II era. America still referred to himself as a hero in modern times, but he was _slightly_ more subdued about it.

England glanced at the child. "What do you think about Freddie?" he suggested. He'd always called America by his country name when he was a colony, but the nickname seemed to suit the young boy.

Freddie nodded eagerly. "Sounds great, Engwand!"

"Why do you care about our names?" the United States asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Understanding slowly dawned on his face. "No! You are not staying. We_ don't _want you, and we _don't _need you," he said harshly.

"I want him to stay," Freddie protested, gripping England's arm tightly.

America grinned. "Guys, guys, we're a democracy. We'll take a vote."

With three votes in favor and one against, it was decided: England was staying. The English nation allowed America to carry his suitcase up to the only empty guest bedroom (the other two had already been claimed by the other Americas) and wondered what in the world he was getting himself into.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

A harem comedy, England. You're getting into a harem comedy ;)


	2. The Colony

Based on a millennium of dabbling in the occult arts, England had a tried-and-true method for dealing with strange situations. He just acted like everything was normal until he found a way to reverse the spell or kill the dragon or do whatever it was he had to do. All he needed was a stiff upper lip and a strong cup of tea. Unfortunately, he lacked a key ingredient at the moment; America was famous for not stocking tea in his house other than the iced, sweetened kind.

So England's first order of business was grocery shopping.

"When was the last time you went to the store?" he demanded as he evaluated the contents of America's refrigerator. The sheer number of take-out containers didn't surprise him, but it did make him worry for poor Freddie's health.

"Uh..."

"Well, I'm going to need a few more ingredients," he said while the four Americas looked on in various states of amusement, curiosity, and alarm.

"No!" America closed the refrigerator door and stepped between England and the fridge. "I mean, you're my guest, England! You don't have to cook," he said cheerfully, though his smile looked a little strained.

The United States snorted. "Yeah, I like my food edible and my kitchen unburnt."

"You might be willing to eat this rubbish, but I am not," England told America, keeping his gaze fixed on the one with the bomber jacket as he pointedly ignored the other's insult to his cooking. "I need tea, and you need more fruits and vegetables."

"And the beer's running low," Al chimed in.

"Can I get ice cream?" Freddie shamelessly begged as he tugged on England's trousers.

Gazing down at those innocent blue eyes, England felt a soft smile spread across his face. His heart warmed as he remembered how America had depended on him and looked up to him in times long past. America was always happy just to see him and spend time together back when he was a child. "We'll see," was England's response, though everyone in the room knew he would eventually cave in. Unless representation in parliament was at stake, England had never been good at saying no to his sweet little colony.

Even the grumbling teenager came along as they piled into America's SUV. For once, England was grateful for America's obsession with big cars. The size of the car meant that there was plenty of room in the back seat for him to sit between Freddie and Al.

At least, England started out with plenty of space. By the time America had backed out of the long driveway, both Freddie and Al were pressed up against his sides. Freddie gave him an adoring smile while Al just winked and casually brushed his hand along England's thigh. The light touch sent a pleasant shiver up England's spine. Al was so close that England could practically smell the sunshine and fresh-cut hay, not to mention that hint of musk he thought of as distinctly _America_.

England didn't know whether to smile or blush. It had always been a little awkward to think of his sweet America and his sexy America at the same time, and now they were sitting right next to him, both vying for his attention. A blush rose in his cheeks as his unspoken attraction to the handsome man America had become threatened to overwhelm his fond memories of taking care of a much younger America.

"Engwand, are you sunburnt?" Freddie asked innocently.

"I'll turn up the AC!" America promised from the driver's seat. A stream of cold air shot out from the vents. And a second later a burst of loud punk music distracted England from his uncomfortable seating situation.

"I think you mean AC/DC," the United States snarked. He had fiddled with the radio station until he found rock and then turned the volume up to eleven.

America rolled his eyes, lifted one hand from the wheel, and turned the volume back down. "Hey, I'm the driver. I get to pick the music."

"Pfft. Your taste sucks. You like _Nickelback_," the United States grumbled.

"Hero is a great song! And you didn't have to come with us, you know."

"You always forget the hard cider if I stay home."

England blinked. "Are you even old enough to drink?" he asked. He knew that America carried a fake driver's license in modern times, but he didn't think the younger teen would be able to convince anyone that he was old enough to drink.

"I'm 237 years old!" the U.S. protested.

"Ah, let the kid have his liquor. Now how about some honky-tonk country?" Al drawled, taking the opportunity to drape his arm on the headrest behind England. England tried not to think about how the cowboy felt so warm and solid next to him. Instead, while the three older Americans squabbled over music, England turned his attention back to Freddie. There was so much he wished he had done with America when he had the chance. Now he had another opportunity to spend time together and he wasn't going to waste it.

"So Freddie, what would you like to do while I'm here?" he asked the child.

"Ah!" The boy's eyes lit up. "Can we go to Wiwie's burg?"

"Williamsburg? Yes, of course," England readily agreed, pleased that America had chosen an educational activity. Though Colonial Williamsburg was filled with inaccuracies, England appreciated the effort they made to keep the past alive.

"And Busch Gardens! It's got rides!"

"Certainly," England agreed to that request as well, though the amusement park's European theme was even less accurate than Colonial Williamsburg. But that didn't matter. He just completely lost the ability to say no when America gazed up at him adoringly with that sweet, innocent smile.

Before England knew it, they had arrived at a grocery store parking lot so large it probably had its own zip code. He held Freddie's hand to keep the boy from getting lost as they walked through the humungous store. Shopping with the Americas was an adventure. Freddie added ice cream and treats to the shopping cart while England added fruits and veggies and pretended that he didn't notice. The other three Americas split off on their own separate tasks, returning to load up the cart with pizza, crisps, and beer.

"You know, the goal was _healthy_ food," England said to Freddie with a sigh when he realized the cart was more junk food than not.

"Ice cream is healthy! It's got milk."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, lad."

Al came up behind England and tossed a box of condoms into the cart. "Hey, if you're worried about workin' off the calories, I can take you on a nice long ride later," he offered with another one of his seductive winks.

England opened his mouth, intending to demand _who_ Al thought the condoms were for, but he remembered Freddie's proximity just in time. While the colony was still distracted by the colorful boxes of breakfast cereal, England moved a few items to hide the condoms from the boy's innocent eyes. America arrived moments later and tossed hamburger buns into the cart.

"I'm done!" Freddie declared as he stood up on his tippy-toes to drop the sugary cereal into the cart.

"Me too." Al gave England a wink. "See anything else you want?"

"Uh," England paused, distracted by Al's sexy grin, before he remembered the whole point of the grocery run. "Tea! Let me grab some boxes and we'll be done."

"I know the way!" America proclaimed, leading them halfway across the grocery store until they reached the coffee aisle. "See, coffee and tea!"

Unsurprisingly, the paltry selection of tea was hidden in a small section between the coffee and hot cocoa. What was surprising was that they arrived to find the United States studying the different options. He flushed guiltily when he noticed them approach. Without meeting England's gaze, he grabbed a box of Irish breakfast tea and tossed it into the shopping cart.

"You're buying tea?" England asked with a raised eyebrow as he grabbed a box of English breakfast tea and chamomile for his own consumption. His frown deepened. "I hope you're not planning a _party_."

Freddie smiled. "I like parties!"

"Well, how about you and I have a party?" the United States proposed, smirking at England as he lifted Freddie into his arms, balancing the cheerful child on his hip.

"We'll invite Engwand!"

"I don't think England likes those sort of tea parties."

England felt a cold stab of sorrow as he remembered the last time he lost his colony. The joy of their time together made it that much harder to cope when they were ripped apart. He nearly jumped when a warm hand gently squeezed his shoulder.

America gave him a comforting smile. "Hey, ignore him. Let's go home and you can have some tea and go to bed early. You must be jet-lagged, right?"

"Yeah, let's get this show on the road!" Al agreed, effortlessly pushing the loaded shopping cart to the front of the store.

Checkout went smoothly despite Al's efforts to flirt with the cashier. She ignored him and didn't even blink an eye as she bagged the condoms. England breathed a sigh of relief when Freddie remained distracted by the candy on the other side of the checkout lane. The three older Americas filled their arms with bags (each grabbing their own favorite food) and started carrying them to the SUV.

"Need any help carrying bags out to your car?" the cashier asked in a bored tone.

England shook his head. "Thank you, miss, we're good."

"Oooh, you're British!" Her look of boredom disappeared.

"English, yes."

"You guys have _such_ cute accents."

"Er... thank you?" Hoping to make a quick escape, England grabbed the last of the shopping bags. The majority were soon tugged out of his hands by Freddie.

"Let me carry some!" The boy happily lifted shopping bags that weighed more than he did and eagerly helped load them into the spacious trunk. Piled in the back of the SUV, it looked like enough food to supply an army for a month. But knowing America's appetite, they would be back to the grocery store within a week. Assuming, of course, that England hadn't solved the problem of the four Americas by then.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

Despite the protests, England cooked dinner. He wanted the Americas to have a nourishing home-cooked meal before they went back to pizzas and hamburgers. As the five sat down together at the dining table, at least Freddie appreciated his efforts.

"This is dewicious, Engwand!" the child said, still chewing food in his mouth.

"Wait to speak until you've finished chewing," England gently corrected, though he smiled happily at the compliment.

"It certainly is... crispy," America managed to say as he heroically finished his meal.

The United States pushed away his plate. "I think I'm going to gag."

"Well, you needn't eat with us if you'd rather be in your room writing bad poetry and brooding about how no one understands you," England tartly replied. He had forgotten how annoying America could be in his little anti-authoritarian snits.

Al grinned. "His poetry ain't that bad. He actually does sonnets."

"When were you in my room?" the United States demanded angrily.

"When you forgot to turn off your alarm clock."

"God. I hate _all_ of you."

Freddie paused before he took another bite. "Even me?" he asked as his lips quivered and tears began to well in his eyes.

The others fell silent while the United States' mouth opened and closed. The teenager's expression softened and he shook his head. "No, Am. Of course not. You're a good kid," he said as he reached across the table and mussed the boy's hair. "Just a little too trusting." The scrape of a chair against the hardwood floor was the only sound in the room as the United States left the table and the room.

"So..." America broke the silence. "Who wants ice cream?"

Freddie clasped his hands together and smiled, the earlier tension and unhappiness instantly forgotten. "Me, me, me!" he said.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

After dessert, England carried the content, sleepy child up to bed. He tucked the boy under the sheets and read him a bedtime story until he was fast asleep.

Lost in memories of all the times he had read stories to his little America centuries ago, England remained seated on the bed for a long time after he finished the story and just watched the child sleep. Thinking of his early years with America usually carried an undercurrent of sadness, but this time it felt like he had been given a second chance to fix their relationship. This time he could watch over America and help him return to normal. This time there would be no more bad memories to dilute his happiness.

He leaned over and kissed Freddie softly on the forehead. "Don't worry, love, I'm going to help you fix this."

"Engwand?" the child blinked sleepily. "Stay with me?"

"Of course, lad." England didn't need any further encouragement to crawl into bed next to the boy. It was still early, but he was jet-lagged. And he missed this heart-warming sensation of being _wanted_ and _needed_. Lulled to sleep by Freddie's soft breathing, England's last thought for the night was that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he couldn't find a way to return America to normal.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

To the Guest reviewer who mentioned Six Centuries of America: that's a fun idea! For reasons that are spoilers at the moment, these aren't actually historical Americas.

Next up, the cowboy ;)


	3. The Cowboy

[**Quick note about ages:** although cowboy!America sometimes appears as a tween in fanart, he is the same age as modern!America in this story. I just wanted to make that clear for reasons that will soon become apparent!]

* * *

"Engwand. _Engwand_."

"Hmm?" England rolled over and blinked sleepily at the smiling, energetic child. "Go back to sleep, Freddie," he murmured.

"I can't! You're here, so we've got to play!"

Giving in to the inevitable, England followed the child downstairs and drank his tea while Freddie watched early morning cartoons. Fortunately, breakfast proved to be much less tense than dinner, mostly because the United States was still sleeping.

England occasionally fantasized about what it would be like to spend a wonderful night with America and then stay the next morning for breakfast. He dreamt of morning kisses, showering together, and breakfast in bed. He had never considered the possibility that their morning together would involve early morning cartoons, though he probably should have. When Freddie was sufficiently distracted, England decided that it was time to delve head-first into discovering why there were four Americas when there should be only one. The Americas were entirely too calm about their predicament. It made England suspect that they knew something they weren't telling him.

Leaving his empty tea cup in the sink, England strolled out the back door into America's low-maintenance garden. Aside from the kitchen herbs, it mostly consisted of shrubs and trees. But the boxwood and magnolias were in bloom, decorating the backyard in pretty blossoms. The path led to the stables, which naturally led to Al. Despite the early hour, the young man was already hard at work. England paused at the stable door to openly admire Al's rippling muscles, strong arms, and tight jeans.

England must have spent a little too long staring because he found himself greeted by a smirk from Al when the young man finally turned around and noticed England's attention. "Howdy there. Did you come to collect on the ride I promised ya?" he asked with a wink as he added a new layer of straw bedding to the stalls.

"I'm just enjoying the fresh air," England replied smoothly. Without Freddie around to make him feel guilty, it was easier to accept that Al was flirting with him and to admit, at least to himself, that he was enjoying it. Immensely. Numerous questions about what exactly Al intended with all of his winking danced on England's lips, but he refused to give the cowboy any satisfaction by asking them. Instead he stepped near one of the stalls and offered his hand to the friendly mare. "I didn't know you still kept horses."

Al smiled fondly and for once he was more focused on the horses than his flirting. "Ginny and George stay with the neighbors most the time, but I like to take 'em out when I've got some free time," he said. "Nothing like a good ride to clear your head."

"I quite agree," England replied, enjoying the feeling of familiarity as he gently scratched the mare's neck. He had ridden horses to war, used them as transportation throughout the ages, and continued to maintain his riding skills on his own estates. Their presence in his life was one of the rare constants in a rapidly changing world.

"Got an English saddle if ya want."

"Really?" England paused mid-scratch to glance at Al in surprise.

The cowboy leaned his pitchfork against the wall and grinned. By way of response, he grabbed the saddle from the hook and placed it on the mare. He casually brushed against England as he tightened the straps, and then brushed past him again as he left to saddle the other horse Western-style. Sooner than England expected, they were ready for a ride that he had never actually agreed to. A pleasant expectancy hung in the air between them, making England's heart beat a little faster when he caught Al glancing his way. It would be a lie to say that England had never thought about kissing America (and more...). But he'd never actually thought that there was a real possibility that America wanted to kiss him _back_. So it felt strange and exhilarating that Al seemed more than happy to promise him a roll in the hay.

Despite the blood pounding in his veins, England strove for calm. "Is there still that charming brook in the north meadow?" he asked, hoisting himself up into the saddle in a single, smooth motion. He relaxed into his seat, glad that Al wasn't making him use a bulky Western saddle.

"Yep! Still flowing strong," Al replied as he tightened the strap around his horse's girth.

"Lovely. I'll meet you there." England urged his horse into a trot out of the stable and then a full gallop across the meadow. He laughed as he heard Al yell from far behind. But England was a light rider on a fast horse and he had no trouble keeping the lead. The wind whipped through his messy locks as he bent forward over the horse's neck. He spotted the fence at the edge of the field. Instead of taking a detour through the gate, he urged the mare to her fastest gallop. He felt her muscles bunch beneath his legs as she leapt over the old fence, clearing it by a good margin.

England was still chuckling to himself when he reached the brook. It was as pretty as he remembered. Bright wildflowers dotted the banks on either side of the gurgling stream. Songbirds sang overhead. Smiling to himself, England dismounted and tied his reins to a tree, giving the mare just enough lead to drink from the stream.

"That was cheating," Al huffed when he arrived a few moments later, slightly out of breath from trying to catch up. England found himself admiring the way the young man's cheeks were slightly pink from the wind and his hair tousled beneath his hat.

"You're just a sore loser," England replied playfully.

"Yeah? We'll see who's sore later." Hanging his cowboy hat on the pommel of his saddle, Al left the horses tied together. He grinned over his shoulder as he stripped off his plaid shirt. While England watched, Al dipped the cloth into the stream and wrung it out over his head, leaving his bare chest glistening with water. Each muscle was toned, tanned, and perfectly defined. England watched as a droplet of water slid down Al's pectorals, along his perfect six-pack, until it disappear into his low-slung jeans. He licked his lips and wished he could trace its path with his finger. It wasn't until he looked up again that he saw Al's stupid, sexy smirk. Other than his tight jeans and dirty boots, it was the _only_ thing the American was wearing as he stepped closer. "You look like you could use a tall drink of water," he purred.

Feeling off-balance, England tried to regain his calm. "Put your shirt back on!" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

"Sorry, I can't help it," the American said as he cupped England's cheek with one hand. "You're too damn hot."

"I..." England blinked stupidly, shocked by the direct flattery.

"Your ass looks damn fine in a saddle, and you've got spitfire in your eyes." Al leaned a little closer. "Your legs go on forever and so could I."

England wondered briefly if he had actually woken up that morning or if he was still in a glorious dream. Because the thought of America actually _desiring_ him had always felt like an impossible dream. And now America was shirtless and practically begging him for a kiss. Not caring if it was a dream or reality, England closed the distance between them. He molded his body against Al's firm chest (which felt as amazing as it looked) as they pressed their lips together in a passionate embrace. He was overcome by a wave of vertigo a second later as Al twisted him and dipped him backwards toward the ground. The hungry kisses lasted long enough to rob England of his breath and his senses. He wondered dizzily to himself, when had America become such a good kisser?

What felt like a wonderful eternity later, Al returned England to an upright position. Both caught their breath as they pulled away, giving England another eyeful of Al's rippling chest. America was certainly handsome, but this wasn't really America, was it? England frowned as he remembered the morning's objective. For goodness sake, he was supposed to be _questioning_ the handsome young man, not snogging him!

"This doesn't feel right," England said, gently pushing Al away.

Al pouted. "It felt pretty damn good to me."

"No, I meant..." England bit off the thought, not willing to admit that he was worried about what the _real_ America would think. He mentally kicked himself, realizing that he should have considered the long-term consequences for his 'special relationship' _before_ he kissed America's exceedingly attractive look-alike.

"You worried about Mr. Hero? He won't care." A smile began to spread across Al's face. "Or were you thinking about someone _else_?"

"I'm merely thinking of propriety," England lied.

"Sure ya are." Al whistled to himself as he pulled on his damp shirt. It didn't do much good; England could still see each muscle through the thin, wet cotton. Al untied his horse's reins, donned his 10-gallon hat, and hopped into the saddle. "Don't worry, England. I can see when someone else has got me beat."

England frowned. Al's smug expression told him that the young man knew _something_. But Al was already leaving and England had learned nothing other than that the American was a good kisser. Which was a wonderful piece of knowledge that England would treasure in his heart forever, but not very helpful to the present predicament. "What happened to the real America?" he demanded.

"Sorry, darling. I don't kiss and tell," Al said. He tipped his hat at England and then spurred his horse up the bank of the stream.

"That's not even what that saying means," England muttered.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

England returned to the kitchen in a foul mood. He had learned nothing new from Al and although the kiss was a nice consolation price, he might have permanently ruined his difficult-to-define relationship with America. He was a little sweaty, a little hungry, and very much annoyed.

To England's relief, at least the other Americas seemed to be acting normal when he entered the kitchen. They gave England barely a nod as they continued slurping their sodas and eating their hamburgers. Perhaps Al _did_ know the true meaning of the phrase 'kiss and tell' and was merely being an annoying smart aleck.

"Engwand! Do you wanna Big Mac?" Freddie asked, gesturing to the pile of wrapped hamburgers at the center of the table.

The United States rolled his eyes. "He doesn't want that processed crap."

It was a good thing that England hadn't started drinking his cup of tea, or he would have spit it out in shock. "You don't like hamburgers?!" he asked, staring at the U.S. in shock.

"_Hamburgers_ are fine, but I don't want something made with pink slime."

"Well, if you and Engwand don't want one, I can have another!" Freddie bit into a new burger and promptly made a face of disgust. "Ew, mustard."

"Just stick it in the machine," America suggested.

England continued staring at the U.S. as Freddie rushed out of the kitchen with his burger. The teenager's love of tea, punk rock, and poetry was starting to make him wonder. "Are you sure you're _really_ America?" he demanded in a low, dangerous voice.

"You don't believe me?" The United States didn't seem offended; he seemed amused. "I remember when you took me sailing for the first time on the James River and I fell off the boat. You spent an hour yelling at me to get back in, but I was having too much fun to listen."

"You caught a cold afterward."

"It was worth it."

England leaned back and relaxed his fists. He and America rarely discussed colonial times, so he was surprised that the teen remembered something from so long ago. He was also surprised that it seemed to be a fond memory for America; England had been terrified at the time that America wouldn't be able to swim on his own. Despite his strange tastes in food and music, it seemed that this American was as genuine as the others.

Freddie returned to the kitchen with a burger in one hand and a dollop of mustard on the other side of his plate. He munched happily, and Al and America joined him in devouring the mountain of hamburgers.

"Al said you went on a nice ride this morning," America said between bites, a guileless look on his face. "Sure is pretty weather."

"Mmm," England replied noncommittally, avoiding Al's smug gaze and the United States' look of annoyance. Taking the approach that seemed to work best, he focused on Freddie. "Would you like to go to the amusement park today?" he suggested.

"Yeah, let's do all the rides!" Freddie said gleefully.

"Sounds good to me," America agreed. "Too bad they don't still give out free beer samples," he added nudging England.

They voted on it, and this time the vote was unanimous. As England packed the sunscreen and other essentials, he kept his gaze on America. Despite getting to first base, he had struck out in his attempt to question Al. But he knew who he intended to question next. After all, weren't heroes supposed to be honest and forthcoming?

* * *

**Author's Notes**

To provide a little more info on ages, I think of Freddie as approximately 4-5 years old, the U.S. as 15-16, and both America and Al as 19. American westward expansion really got started in the 1860s, so other than the cute factor, I'm not sure why folks draw America as younger than revolutionary America in his cowboy gear.

Disclaimer: The lawyers from McDonald's wish me to inform you that their burgers are no longer made with pink slime and their chicken nuggets are now 100% real chicken.


	4. The Hero

"Now arriving... Busch Gardens!" America declared from the driver's seat. England looked out the window and over the treetops could tell that the park was huge. From what America had explained, it was laid out into several different sections, each inspired by a different European country. Some sounded more interesting than others. Obviously, England planned to skip the French section.

"I think we can use the season pass for all of us," the United States suggested as they hopped out of the car. "If anyone asks, we're triplets."

"They're going to think you're the runt of the litter," Al teased.

The U.S. rolled his eyes. "You're just taller because you're wearing boots."

England glanced at the cowboy boots, which led his eyes to Al's long, lean legs. After a short intake of breath, he forced his gaze back to the ground, which seemed safer than the alternatives. Though England normally paid more attention to traffic, he was still a little spacey from his kiss and sitting so close to Al during the car ride hadn't helped matters. He raised one foot to step off the sidewalk and then stumbled backwards as America frantically grabbed him by the back of his shirt. A car whizzed past seconds later. England regained his balance and turned around to find America giving him a look of concern.

"You okay there?" America asked, his eyes dark with worry.

"Just forgot to check the right side," England said as the initial rush of adrenaline passed. "Thank you."

"No problem." America grinned. "It's what heroes do!" He grabbed England's hand and held it the rest of the way as they crossed the parking lot, despite England's protests that he didn't need a nanny. But England was also happy when Freddie grabbed his other hand. The two hands were very different, but both felt perfect in his own.

The first stop inside the park was fashioned to resemble London, complete with a fake Big Ben (technically _Elizabeth Tower_, he always reminded tourists), red telephone booths, and replica Globe Theatre. England thought it was too kitschy, but the other visitors seemed to enjoy it, snapping pictures in front of the iconic booths. Unfortunately, the next area was filled with Scottish flags and tartan patterns. England sighed and wrinkled his nose at the thought of his annoying older brother. It seemed that everyone in this area was queuing for a roller coaster ride. Given its undulating twists and turns, the ride at the center of the Scottish area was appropriately named the Loch Ness Monster.

"I want to go on that one!" Freddie cried, excitedly pulling England forward by the hand. "Pwease!"

"I don't think you're tall enough, lad," England said sadly, pointing to the cardboard cutout of Nessie declaring that riders had to be four-feet tall. Even stretching to his full height, Freddie was a half-foot short.

"Oh." The boy sniffed. "Well, I can wait here."

England smiled and hugged the sweet child. "You know, I don't really care for the big rides. How about you and I visit the Land of Dragons?"

"Really?" Freddie's eyes widened in delight.

"Of course." England turned to look at the Americas. He had wanted to spend some time trying to learn more about what happened to the original America. But making sure that Freddie had fun was also important. He quickly made up his mind, deciding that they wouldn't have had much of an opportunity to talk on the roller coaster anyway. "Well then, we'll meet you at the dodgem cars in two hours," he announced.

Al turned to the teenage United States and grinned. "Think we can get all the big rides done in two hours?" he drawled.

"Ours but to try," the U.S. replied.

England snorted, wondering when America had started reading Tennyson. But before he could ask, Freddie eagerly grasped his hand and began to tug him away from the others. They had crossed a bridge beneath the coaster and were approaching a giant dragon statue when America caught up with them. "Someone's got to make sure you don't step in front of any more cars," he explained as he gave England a bright smile.

Despite the flimsy excuse, England smiled back. He wasn't going to say no if America wanted to spend more time with him. Even if it wasn't the _real_ America.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

Playing with Freddie and America in the dragon-themed play area was more fun than England would have expected. They boarded a Ferris Wheel with seats in the shape of dragon eggs, giving them a magnificent view of the park. Despite the development, the thick canopy of trees reminded England of the primeval forests of his youth. Speaking of youth, Freddie reacted to everything with delight, and his enthusiasm was infectious. England laughed as the boy splashed his way through geysers and waterfalls, searching for the serpent that supposedly hid in the area. As he watched Freddie explore a three-story treehouse, England found himself smiling more than he had in years.

And even though he and America often traded insults when working together in modern times, he found that spending time with _this_ America was very pleasant. Although he was still a little too cocksure, the young man seemed to exemplify many of the best traits of his favorite superheroes. Despite his confidence that he was always right, he was also kind and always looking to protect others.

So when a little girl shrieked and nearly fell out of the tall treehouse, England wasn't surprised to see America help her down and return her to grateful parents. Even more endearingly, the younger nation blushed a bright red when England complimented him on being "quite the hero."

It felt wonderful to spend time with an America who was well-mannered and solicitous. After the near traffic accident, the young man had apparently decided to treat England as his damsel in distress for the day. Despite being neither a damsel nor in distress, England didn't mind the kind behavior and soft smiles. It was almost as if they were courting. The proper courtship that England remembered fondly, with shy glances and bashful hand-holding. It made England sigh wistfully for days long past.

England _had_ considered courting America before, but every interaction with the other country reminded him why it was a bad idea. America insulted his cooking, called him old, and dismissed his fairies. When England suggested spending more time together, America pushed him away. When all was said and done, they were allies, nothing more. So England told himself not to get his hopes up when this America smiled at him or looked at him with a warm gaze. It was probably a side effect of America's predicament. England would just have to enjoy it while it lasted.

"Look at me!" Freddie called cheerfully from his spot on the carousel.

England smiled and waved back. He noticed someone approach him from the side, but relaxed when he realized it was just America. The weather was a little too warm for jackets, but that never seemed to stop America.

"Tuppence for your thoughts?" the young man asked, letting his shoulder brush against England's as they watched the carousel spin.

"Seems an awful lot to offer. I haven't used that coin since 1971, so it's probably rather valuable now," England teased. "Are you sure you can pay up?" He glanced over at America and caught the other nation's fond smile.

"Hey, now, my debts aren't _that_ bad."

"Well they're certainly more than tuppence." England watched as the carousel began to slow down. "Though right now I'm wondering where you learned that word."

"Mary Poppins. I always loved that song, you know. Walt did too." America bumped his shoulder against England's. "But I wanted to know what you were thinking _before_ I asked."

"I was thinking about you, actually," England admitted. "Well, the four of you. I wish I knew what was going on."

America shifted uncomfortably. "It's not anything _bad_," he said.

"You can tell me. I want to help."

A giggling Freddie chose that moment to barrel into England's legs and hug him tightly, begging him for another ride on the dragon-themed carousel.

America took advantage of the distraction to look down at his watch. "Oh, wow, look at the time! We're going to be late for bumper cars!"

Dodgems was... not England's cup of tea. It jostled his head and bruised his back. The Americas seemed to have fun ramming into each other and hitting everyone else, mostly by mistake. Oddly, the United States and America were particularly keen to crash their cars together. Something was going on between those two that England didn't understand. When they finally finished, England breathed a sigh of relief and suggested that it might be nice to get a drink and sit down.

"But there are still more rides!" Freddie protested. "And I haven't seen the ponies!"

"Ponies?" Al perked up. He grinned and offered to watch Freddie for the next hour. He even winked at England as he left, which was _strange_.

Despite that oddity, England was grateful the child was so easily distracted, allowing him and America to walk over to a German-themed place selling pretzels and beer. England skipped the pretzels and went straight for the beer. The U.S. followed them, although he was left sulking at the bar with a soda after he realized that America had the fake I.D. and he was too young to use it anyway.

"He doesn't seem to like you," England commented, wondering if it was simply because of the fake I.D. or had its roots in something deeper.

America shrugged and sipped his beer. "We don't agree on much. He says superheroes are an oversimplistic depiction of the jingoistic belief that might makes right, created and popularized to justify the hegemony of American imperialism."

"What?" England nearly dropped his glass of beer.

"Yeah, I don't know what he meant either. I told him that superheroes are awesome," America's grin faded to a somber look. "And I don't like the way he treats you either, always pushing you away. He has no right to be so rude."

"He's no worse than the real America, I assure you." England chuckled and sipped his beer. The place was at least authentic enough to serve the alcohol only slightly chilled, not like frozen American beers.

America looked like he wanted to say something, but he took a sip of his beer instead.

It turned out that skipping the pretzels was a bad idea. Although England wouldn't admit it, his tolerance was low to start with, and almost nonexistent if he didn't eat. "You're me best mate," he slurred four beers later, wrapping an arm around America's shoulder,

"Ah, thanks. You're my best friend too, England," America replied, trying to pull England's glass out of his reach. But England saw through the young man's tricks and downed the liquid before it could be stolen.

The bartender promptly cleared away England's empty glass. "The park will be closing in thirty minutes," he warned. "Need anything else?"

"Ye—" England began.

"NO," America interrupted, giving the bartender a glare.

England sniffled, depressed at the loss of alcohol. Alcohol was his only friend. No, wait, America was his only friend. "Prolly my only friend," he mumbled.

"Please don't cry," America said softly. England started to wonder if his kisses were equally soft. Al's kiss had been hungry and passionate and _amazing_, but England wanted something comforting, something to ease his loneliness. His tipsy mind, emboldened by a lack of inhibitions, suddenly saw an upside to America's predicament. It was almost like a pick-his-own-America adventure.

Alcohol was sometimes called Dutch courage, but in his tipsy moments England thought it could be called English courage too. He draped his other arm around America, nearly knocking them off the stools. "_America_," he breathed. And then he kissed him, sweet and gentle as a spring rain. England felt light-headed and giddy. The kiss was so wonderful it made the room spin, and then everything went black.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

England felt someone buckle him into a car seat and place a heavy jacket over his body. It was soft and warm and smelled of America. As his eyes flickered open, he could see a child buckled into the seat next to him. The boy was sound asleep, although he was conked out from too much excitement and rides, as opposed to too much alcohol. Three people were talking, but it took a while for the words to pierce his foggy brain, and even then they didn't make much sense.

"It doesn't count," one voice protested.

"Ah, you're just jealous he ain't kissed you yet."

"He was drunk, he could have thought that he was kissing anyone."

"Pretty sure he said 'America,'" the voice next to England replied. The man chuckled softly and England could feel the motion from the arm resting behind his shoulders.

"Yeah, but what does _that_ prove?"

Some part of England knew the conversation was about him. He wanted to add a contribution, but the only words that tumbled out of his mouth were, "'m not drunk."

"Uh-huh," the America next to him replied, tightening the arm that was circled around England's shoulders. "Go back to sleep."

England blinked owlishly at the America in the driver's seat and the America in the passenger's seat. Blanking on the past couple days, his last thought before he passed out completely was that he had drunk too much if he was seeing _triple_.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Some day I will write a story where England doesn't get drunk, but this is not that story. Also, I would like to note for the record that because America was also drinking, Al is the one in the driver's seat. Yeehaw!

I probably won't post another chapter until after the weekend. Hope everyone who gets Monday off has a nice three-day weekend!


	5. The Machine

England woke up with a full bladder, a pounding headache, and a nasty taste in his mouth. He stumbled to the guest bathroom to find relief for all three.

"I am never drinking again," he swore as he began his search for the pain pills. America's cabinets had far too many bottles (including several filled with diet pills sold only on late-night television), but soon enough England found the Tylenol. He knew that it was bad for his liver, but so was drinking, and that hadn't stopped him from a millennium of overindulgence. (In his defense, beer and wine had been safer than water for most of his history The habit had stuck.) As he brushed his teeth with America's bubblegum-flavored toothpaste, he heard a derisive snort from the hallway.

"Geez, you look like hell," the United States said with his usual level of tact.

"Oh, piss off," England muttered as he spat out the toothpaste and examined his haggard appearance in the mirror. He _did_ look like hell, and he felt like hell too. He groaned and rubbed his temples. "It's too early in the morning to deal with your shit."

"Hey, if you don't want to deal with me, you can just go home." The U.S. gave England a smug glance. "And you actually slept through the morning. It's already after noon."

"Then it's too bloody early in the afternoon!" England snapped, shutting the bathroom door in the teen's face. He grumbled to himself as he stripped down for a shower, tugging off his clothes with unnecessary force and nearly ripping his trousers. The U.S. reminded him of everything he hated about America: the insults, the hurtful comments, and the painful memories. Even a gentle shower couldn't calm his temper, though he did feel marginally better as the pain medication took effect. As much as he enjoyed the other Americas' company, he was heartily annoyed with the teenager's attitude.

Wrapped in a towel, England returned to his bedroom to find a steaming cup of tea waiting for him. Probably America's work, he decided, given their pleasant flirting from the day before. He took a sip and was surprised by the quality of the brewing. America had accidentally used the Irish breakfast tea, but it was otherwise well-steeped. He would have to thank the young nation and then ask him for an accounting of the previous night's activities. England's memories were still a blur.

Taking care not to move too quickly, lest his headache return, England picked his clothes for the day and cautiously made his way downstairs to the kitchen. His stomach still felt queasy, but he thought he could manage a slice of toast and another cup of tea. He found Al and America waiting for him.

"Heard you were up," Al drawled. "Want some hair of the dog?" he offered, holding up a silver flask. He shook it slightly, making the contents swish.

"Ignore him," America called from behind the stove. "I'm making bacon and eggs!"

As tempting as the offer of alcohol was, England waved away the flask. "Ah, I'd better not," he said. He knew that more alcohol was just a recipe for disaster, not a cure for a hangover.

"More hooch for me, I guess." Al took a swig and set the flask back onto the table with a satisfied thunk, drying his lips with the back of his hand. He grinned at England. "You don't look so good, partner. Weren't you supposed to protect him, Mr. Hero?"

"Hey!" America protested. "Heroes protect people from _villains_, not their own choices."

"Maybe beer is England's kryptonite."

America's eyes widened. "Shit, I think you're right!"

The shouting made England's head begin to throb again. He sighed and rested his forehead against the table. "Could you _please_ argue more quietly?"

"Sorry," the identical nations replied from opposite ends of the kitchen. America returned to his frying pan and Al took another swig of his flask. After a few minutes of blissful silence allowed his headache to dissipate, England lifted his head to find Al giving him a sly grin. The young man caught his gaze and winked. "You know, I've got another cure for a hangover you might be interested in," he purred.

England felt his throat go dry. The offer was even more tempting than the flask, though he knew it was an equally bad idea. He had to think of the international repercussions, but it was hard to focus while Al was giving him a once-over with those beautiful baby blues.

"England! I made you a cup of tea," America said proudly, setting the mug down with a loud clatter right in front of England.

The English nation pulled back and gave America a genuine smile. Even in his hungover state, he could tell the two were fighting over him. He rather liked the jealousy, especially if it came with a side of tea. "Another one? Thank you, America."

"Huh?" America blinked.

Despite that strange reaction, England took a sip and nearly spit out the brew because of the overpowering sweetness. He forced himself to keep a smile on his face as he set the tea back onto the table.

America smiled. "Do you like it?" he asked eagerly.

"It's a bit sweet," England replied in the understatement of the year. He stared at the cup. It went against everything he believed in to pour tea down the drain, but he didn't think he could actually _drink_ it. Gazing into the swirling liquid of the cup, a thought nagged in the back of his mind. Something about food... something that could help him. "I don't suppose there's a way to take out the sugar?"

"You mean use the machine?"

"Yes, precisely." England nodded as the memory came to him. Though he had been distracted at the time, he distinctly remembered Freddie removing mustard from his hamburger. Perhaps the same machine could be used to salvage his tea. To his surprise, America readily agreed. Tea cup in hand, America led England to a glowing gray machine in the computer room, a place that England normally avoided if possible since it was also the lair of America's alien friend. But there was no Tony today.

America opened the door to reveal an immaculate interior that was larger than it seemed from the outside. He set the tea inside, closed the door, and pressed a few buttons. "Ta-da!" he said, opening the door to reveal a cup of tea and a saucer coated in sugar.

"Oh, my." England stared, feeling the pieces click into place. "It can separate something into its component parts," he said, thinking aloud.

"Sort of."

"Removing mustard from a burger and sugar from tea."

"Yep."

"Does it only work on food?"

"Oh no, it can do lots of stuff!" America said, proud to show off his latest toy.

"I see." England arched an eyebrow. "And does it work on nations?"

America's smile froze. "Uh..."

"You used it on yourself!" England accused, rounding on America. "What were you _thinking_?"

"Well..."

"I'll tell you what," England jabbed a finger in America's face. "You weren't thinking at all! You just went ahead with one of your mad ideas and crazy experiments, not caring if you hurt yourself or messed up the global economy or made me worry." His head throbbed as spikes of pain lanced behind his eyeballs.

"Hey, I didn't expect it to make _four_ of us!"

"You stepped into alien technology having no idea what it would do to you, and you expect me to think that makes it _better_?!" England yelled, ignoring the pain. He needed America to understand that what he had done was very reckless and stupid.

"It's not dangerous!" America protested. "It was a gift from Tony."

"And is that supposed to reassure me? Because it doesn't. I've never liked that vulgar creature, and you're a fool for trusting him."

By that point their shouting had gathered an audience of Americas. Al took another swish of his flash while Freddie watched with a worried look, like a child who had seen his parents arguing for the first time. The U.S. crossed his arms and glared at England. "Don't get mad, old man. The machine worked the way it was supposed to. I've got the situation under control."

England tossed his hands into the air. "Well, I'll just leave it to you then and go home. I'm sure you can find a cure for the fact that you're a bloody idiot." He groaned, rubbing his temples as the pain multiplied. "I don't know why I even bother sometimes."

The room was nearly silent for a moment as Freddie sniffled and burst into tears. "Don't leave me!" he wailed pitifully.

"No!" England was at the boy's side in an instant. "No, no, I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean that. Please don't cry," he said soothingly as he lifted the child into his arms. Freddie burrowed against England's chest, shaking as he continued to cry.

"Good job, England," the U.S. said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

England glared at the teenager and turned his attention back to Freddie. After a few moments of calming noises, he managed to stop the flow of the child's tears. "Would ice cream make it better?" he offered, rubbing the boy's back.

To his surprise, the child shook his head. "Don't wan' ice cream."

"What do you want?"

"You've got to kiss it better."

The swell of affection in England's heart made him completely forget the pain of his hangover. His little colony was just as adorable as he remembered. He brushed back the boy's hair and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. "There. Does that feel better, love?"

Freddie nodded and smiled back. His cheerful smile showed none of his earlier distress, although there was still a faint redness around his eyes.

The U.S. made a gagging noise. "Ugh, I must have drunk too much last night too because I feel like puking."

"I wouldn't recommend it," Al teased, "that's not going to help your chances at all."

"Shut up."

America lifted his head and sniffed the air. "Hey, do you guys smell something burning?" His eyes widened in realization. "Oh shit!" he said as he raced upstairs to rescue the eggs and bacon.

Despite the slight blackness, England ate them anyway. They tasted fine to him.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

The rest of the afternoon was spent at the beach. England collected seashells with Freddie, though he paused occasionally to admire America and Al while they played a game of shirtless tetherball. Al hit the volleyball hard, sending it looping around the pole before America returned the volley with an equally strong hit. But the plays didn't interest England as much as the young men's physique. Al had taken off his shirt to reveal that he was slightly more tanned and muscular. But America had broader shoulders and short swim trunks that showed off his butt.

"Do you think this shell is better?" Freddie asked.

"They both look very nice," England replied without shifting his gaze.

"Ooh, this one still has a crab in it!"

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm gonna add them to the pile!" Freddie said, finally drawing England's gaze away from the older Americas as the boy raced toward the area where the group had left their towels, bags, and chairs. A short distance away, the U.S. had set up his own chair and was busy reading a book.

The rest of the Americas were starting to make sense, but the angry teenager was still a mystery. England crossed the sand toward the lone chair, earning himself a glare as the teenager noticed him approach. He ignored it. "What are you reading?" he asked pleasantly.

"A book," the U.S. said tersely.

"But not a comic book."

The U.S. rolled his eyes. "Do I look like Mr. Hero?"

"Well, yes," England replied, earning a snort of amusement from the other nation.

"Okay, I walked into that one."

England bent down to get a better look at the book and was surprised to see that it was an English history book. Other than watching every WWII movie ever made, he had never known America to take much interest in history, either his own or anyone else's. The U.S. hastily hid the cover and glared at England again.

"Did you _want_ something?" he demanded.

England shrugged and smiled slightly. "Not really. I just wanted to thank you for the lovely cup of tea this morning." He turned around when he heard Freddie call for him, but not before he noticed the light blush that dusted the teenager's cheeks.

How _interesting_...

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Everyone who guessed "split personality" and alien technology can pat themselves on the back. Good job!

For those who are curious, tetherball is a game for two players who hit a volleyball tied to a pole back and forth. It's quite fun :)


	6. The Rebel

When England suggested visiting Colonial Williamsburg the next morning, the older Americas looked at him like he was crazy. But there was a method to England's madness. He had spent most of the previous night thinking about his one-sided love affair with America, and he had reached two riveting conclusions.

First, his love wasn't one-sided. If each of the Americas represented part of the original America's personality, then it seemed that America returned his love. The very idea filled England's heart with warm, giddy happiness. But that joy was tempered with his second realization: part of America kept pushing him away. And England was beginning to suspect the reason for the divide was the War They Did Not Discuss. If he wanted to know the truth, he would have to confront some uncomfortable history.

Ever the hero, America tried to dissuade him from visiting the Revolutionary City. "Don't you want to go to Busch Gardens again?" he asked with a worried smile. "Or a bar. We could just go straight to a bar."

"That sounds good to me," Al agreed.

England arched an eyebrow. "What's wrong with colonial Williamsburg? I'm very fond of historical, educational places," he said, trying to quell their dubious looks. "And it seems like a lovely city."

"You _do_ know it's set during 1776?" the United States asked.

"I am aware," England calmly replied.

"Well, I call dibs on carrying him up to his room if he gets drunk again," Al whispered to America. At least, it was likely _supposed_ to be a whisper. America had never been good at maintaining an 'indoor voice.'

"Just hold your horses, cowboy," America said, wagging a finger in Al's face. "Helping drunk Brits get home safely is a job for a hero."

The U.S. rolled his eyes as he flipped to the next page of the newspaper, pretending he wasn't interested in their discussion at all. "Are you two _really_ going to fight over this?"

"Hey, you were the one who insisted on rock-paper-scissors last time," America reminded him. "You're just upset you lost."

"No, I didn't!" The teenager shouted, blushing beet red. "And no I'm not!"

"Did he really?" England asked, equal parts amused and intrigued.

"Oh, yeah." Al chuckled. "I mean, who plays _scissors_ on the first round?"

In the end, the three refused to believe England when he said he wasn't going to get drunk, but they all agreed to go with him anyway (for reasons, England suspected, that were not entirely altruistic). Fortunately, Freddie at least seemed enthusiastic about the plan.

"Can we get costumes?" Freddie asked, his eyes sparkling. The boy was wearing modern clothing America had purchased from some big box store and England didn't think it suited the child at all. The mere thought of Freddie dressed up in a white child's frock made England's heart melt into goo. How could be possibly say no?

ߛ ߛ ߛ

Just as England remembered, the 18th century costumes for boys were _adorable_. England would have loved to spend all day watching Freddie try on breeches, loose cotton shirts and three-pointed hats at the costume rental store in Williamsburg. He wished he had brought his camera along on his trip, even though he would need to hide the pictures in case anyone wondered how he had managed to take a digital photo of colonial America. But the boy was just too cute in his little breeches!

The only downside of browsing for costumes came when the young woman behind the counter at the rental store heard England's accent and decided to help him find the perfect historical outfit. "Ooh!" she said, "I've got _just_ the costume for you." She ducked into the backroom and returned, proudly holding a very familiar red coat.

England's heart clenched at the painful memories. "I think I'd prefer a gentleman's outfit," he managed to reply with a stiff upper lip.

America gave him a concerned look and a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. "Green's more your color anyway," he added. "Matches your pretty peepers."

"Peepers?"

"You know, your eyes."

"Oh, I see." England blinked, pleasantly surprised by the kind words. The flirting was certainly far more pleasant than their usual string of insults.

Moments later Al sauntered out of the changing room wearing an old-fashioned laborer's outfit with a cotton shirt under suspenders. He hooked his thumbs behind the leather suspenders and winked at the young woman behind the counter. "Do ya think the shirt is too tight?"

She gasped. "No! It's _perfect_!"

England frowned, not liking the way she was looking at Al. He stepped between the two to block Al from her view and then took the opportunity to examine the costume himself. Just for historical accuracy, of course. Everything about Al's costume was a little too tight, from the way the trousers hugged the younger nation's legs and hips to the shirt that showed off every abdominal muscle. Even the crotch was tight, though England quickly averted his gaze. The young man certainly did look very attractive, but the accuracy left something to be desired.

"I didn't think braces were invented until the 1800s," England said as he fingered the suspenders, unable to resist his desire to _touch_.

"But I'm not wearing braces," Al replied, widening his smile to show off his pearly whites. "My teeth are naturally perfect. Like everything else about me."

"Oh, I can think of a few things you're missing," England suggested. "Like modesty."

Al leaned in, brushing his lips past England's ear. "I ain't got nothing to be modest about. Maybe when we're done touring the town, I can show ya what I mean."

"Your grammar also leaves something to be desired," England replied smoothly as he pulled away. He enjoyed the delicious teasing, but he and America already had a tricky enough relationship as it was. He wasn't going to risk damaging it further while America was still under the effects of alien technology. Instead England (somewhat reluctantly) searched the racks of men's clothing until he found the perfect outfit, a lovely green suit. He returned from the changing room to find that America had picked blue, though the younger nation rather ruined the effect by wearing his bomber jacket instead of the suit jacket, protesting that his jacket was also 'historical' and therefore matched the suit.

The U.S. stuck to his dark t-shirt and jeans. "We've spent centuries developing comfier clothes," he complained. "I'm not going back to any of that stiff, formal shit."

Though England loved old-fashioned clothing, he had to admit that the teenager had a point as the sun continued to rise overhead, making the stiff fabric feel hot and heavy. It was a bit of relief to step into the dimly lit gaol for a tour of the colony's prison.

The tour guide (also dressed in clothing from the colonial era) pretended to be the warden as he told them the history of the goal's most infamous inhabitants: a dozen pirates who served Blackbeard. They had been captured the day their captain was killed off the coast of North Carolina. After a few nights in jail, they were tried and hanged in Williamsburg.

"Wow!" Freddie said excitedly. He peered into the grim, dark cells, eyeing the leg irons and the small food slots in the doors. "Engwand, did you meet Bwackbeard?"

England shook his head. "No, he was only on the eastern seaboard for two years, and I was busy in Europe at the time."

"There's a surprise," the United States muttered under his breath, too quiet for the others to hear. England frowned, wondering if he had imagined the undercurrent of pain that the teenager hid beneath his heavy coat of sarcasm.

Over the course of the day, the Americas dragged England to old-fashioned houses and shops, playing along with the tour guides as they churned butter and made bricks. Their focus on daily living largely avoided discussion of the American Revolutionary War. England wondered if the omission was intentional. It had to be. What else could possibly explain why America would _willingly_ go with him to a decorative arts museum? Admittedly, the Americas spent more time looking at the furniture than the textiles, but England thoroughly enjoyed the breath-taking quality of the old quilts.

Walking through Colonial Williamsburg was like seeing history through rose-tinted glasses. England _remembered_ colonial Williamsburg, which had been the capitol of the British colony of Virginia, and it was much, _much_ dirtier than this gussied-up tourist town. Still, the guides told interesting stories and England approved of anything that encouraged more people to study history, even if it was a point in time that brought him painful memories.

Their final stop was the Governor's Palace, a re-creation of the elegant mansion that had served as home to nine Virginia governors before the capitol moved to Richmond. England paused a moment to admire the stone lion and stone unicorn guarding the gates, impressed by the handiwork despite the unpleasant twinge in his stomach at the reminder of former British authority. Despite the uneasy feeling, he followed the Americas and all of the other tourists into the building. The tour started in the front hall as the tour guides (dressed as maids) pretended that they were preparing the building for a ball in January 1775 to celebrate the birth of the royal governor's daughter. The last _royal_ governor, England remembered as a migraine began to build behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples and avoided looking at the swords and rifles lining the walls as the pain continued to grow.

The tour led through the ballroom and the dining room, but England had a hard time admiring the opulence. Noticing that his headache was similar to the ones he suffered in early July, he began to wonder if visiting colonial Williamsburg was such a good idea after all. He hid at the back of the tour group and hoped that none of the Americas would notice.

When the guides began explaining how the building had served as a hospital for American soldiers during the Revolutionary War, England slipped out to the mansion's gardens for a breath of fresh air. He sat on a bench and lowered his head between his knees. Even in the shade of the old elm trees, it was too bright and too hot. It wasn't until he saw tennis shoes standing right in front of him that he even realized someone had approached. For a second he thought it might be a tour guide. He briefly wondered how to explain that the usual first aid wouldn't help his pain. He looked up and was surprised to find the United States staring at him instead.

"You look like you need some AC," the U.S. said bluntly. He apparently took England's lack of response as a 'yes' because he pulled the English nation to his feet and led him to the nearby gift shop. The air conditioning felt fantastic, and England gratefully sank into one of the chairs near the restrooms.

The United States disappeared, returning a minute later with an ice-cold bottle of water, which he pressed into England's hands. England felt better with each sip, even though he wondered when the teasing was going to start. Sure, the U.S. was acting nice _now_, but England didn't see how the teenager would be able to resist mocking him mercilessly for nearly fainting in the gardens. With his free hand, England unbuttoned the heavy jacket, feeling like he could finally breathe again when he was free of the stiff fabric.

The teenager looked out the window and frowned, glaring at the city outside. "I hate this place. It's all a lie."

England took another ice-cold sip and shrugged. At the moment, he was simply grateful for the historical inaccuracy of air conditioning and refrigeration. His love of the past didn't blind him to the joys of modern conveniences. "Well, it's certainly a bit too clean, but the re-enactors seem relatively accurate to me," he said.

"They've gotten better," the U.S. admitted. "It's just... well, they had segregated dorms when they re-built it in the 1930s. And in the 50s, African Americans could visit only one day per week. They barely even _mentioned_ slavery until the 70s."

"You wish they had been more honest about history."

"No, I wish they had a better history to tell."

"Ah." England nodded in comprehension, realizing that the teen's anguish stemmed from a different war. Civil wars were painful for any nation, and it was especially hard for an idealistic nation like America to see the fault in his founders. England finally understood the teenager's veiled comments. "The lie is that they were thinking only of their own liberty, not liberty for all," he mused.

The U.S. stared at him in surprise, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. After a moment, he managed to close his mouth and give England a thoughtful look.

"What? You didn't expect an old Empire to understand?" England asked wryly. "You're hardly the first country to stagger toward democracy on the installment plan."

"No," the U.S. replied quickly, "I didn't expect you to admit that you're _old_." But England had seen the uncertainty and vulnerability beneath the teen's mask of sarcasm. It was rare for America to ever admit to self-doubt. And even rarer for him to turn to England for comfort. It reminded England of the first time America had written him a personal letter as a nation. Unfortunately, England's response had left something to be desired. It wasn't really a surprise the young country had never written again.

England sighed. "While we're on the subject of old hurts, I regret that I never responded to your letter."

"What letter?" the teenager asked, before comprehension dawned. "Oh, the one in '61." His gaze darkened. "Well, you did reply, sort of."

"A response from the English government stiffly informing you that we wouldn't take sides in your domestic affairs was hardly a _response_ to what you had written."

"It was better than nothing. At least I stopped worrying about you helping the Confederacy." The American tilted his head to the side, giving England a searching look. "What do you wish you _had_ said?"

"I should have told you that pain from the war, no matter how terrible, meant that the land still belonged to you. That your people would suffer, but a nation endures. And..." England paused for a moment, wondering if it was really a good idea to divulge a secret known to only a few other nations. But the teenager was listening to him intently, and he desperately wanted to reach him. "...and if the confederacy were destined to be a nation, it would have had a personification." He wondered if the teenager would understand the full implications.

Lost in their intense conversation, they both jerked as the teen's phone began to buzz. The U.S. pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "They've finally noticed that you're missing," he explained as he scrolled through the message. "And Al wants to know if you're at a bar."

"That's ridiculous," England sputtered. He frowned as he watched the United States type something in reply. "What are you telling them? You're not telling them the truth, are you?"

"Nah." The U.S. grinned. "I'm just saying that you found some fairies in the garden and you're chatting with them."

England crossed his arms. "That's equally absurd. I haven't seen a fairy in days."

The teenager's phone buzzed again. "Yeah, well, they said to meet up with them again when you're done talking to your invisible friends."

"Just because they're invisible to _you_ doesn't mean—"

"Oh shit." The teenager blanched.

England leaned forward, instantly on alert. "What is it? What happened?"

"Nothing," the U.S. said, suddenly tight-lipped.

"Is everyone safe?"

"Yeah, it's just... America bought tickets for the Ghosts of Williamsburg tour."

"Well, you don't have to go if you're scared."

"I'm not scared!"

"No, of course not," England replied, smiling slightly to himself. No matter how different the various Americas acted, it was still reassuring to know that some things never changed.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Ghost cliffhanger! Dun dun dun!

Colonial Williamsburg does not actually rent out adult costumes, but I have decided to take artistic liberties. Everything else should be reasonably accurate. This fic has turned into a tourist brochure for Virginia :)


	7. The Denial

In the dim light of dusk, Williamsburg seemed enchantingly surreal.

Lanterns glowed in the windows and people moved quickly on the cobble streets, their modern clothing less jarring in the darkness. As night fell the buildings merged together into a long line of silhouettes, distinguished only by the happy laughter and bright lights from within the pubs and restaurants. They certainly seemed to be doing a brisk business.

England shivered as a cool breeze blew across the cobble streets. At his insistence they had returned their costume rentals before the store closed, but now he regretted handing back his heavy suit. They had fifteen minutes to wait before the ghost tour started (since England had _also_ insisted on arriving early for the tour) and he wasn't looking forward to lingering outside in the cool evening air.

A moment later a warm and cozy jacket came to rest on his shoulders. England turned his head to the side and watched a now-jacketless America lower his arms and smile. "Better?" the younger nation asked eagerly.

"I wasn't that cold," England protested, even as he blushed and pulled the jacket more securely around his shoulders. He could feel America's warmth lingering in the jacket and found himself enveloped in an earthy scent that reminded him of summer days and sun-ripened wheat. It wasn't the first time America had lent out his bomber jacket, but the occasions were rare enough that England collected them like precious jewels.

He even knew—thanks to a video posted online by Scotland—that America sometimes covered him in the jacket when he was drunk and half-naked in his sexy waiter outfit, though he had no personal recollection of those incidents for obvious reasons. Scotland had probably intended to embarrass him with the video, but his effort backfired. England had been too pleased by the sight of himself wrapped in America's jacket to feel truly annoyed. He stored the video on his computer and watched it often. It was such an intimate gesture and one that, as far as England knew, America had never shared with another nation. As much as he and America argued, that told England that there was something truly special about their relationship.

"...want one, England?"

"Sorry?" The British nation blinked, pulled out of his fond reminiscence by the sound of America's voice.

He listened as America repeated his explanation and his question. They were going on a candlelit tour and America wanted to know if England wanted to carry a candle during the tour. England nodded and waited for America to fetch three sets of candlesticks from the guides, one each for the two older Americas and England. No one bothered to ask the United States if he wanted one. The poor teenager continued to tremble in fear, making a candle absolutely useless in his hands. England hid a smile. He would never admit it, but America was rather adorable when scared. Hence his long-running (and highly successful) efforts to frighten the lad on Halloween.

Feeling a moment of pity, England leaned closer to the teen. "We really could just return to your home," he suggested kindly, avoiding the dreaded g-word. "I wouldn't mind making an early night of it."

"We can't leave!" Freddie protested. "I wanna go on the tour."

"Not everything is about you," England said, slightly annoyed by the child's whining. "And I'm sure Al or America would be happy to stay with you."

The U.S. glanced up at England, his gaze vulnerable and confused. "You'd go back if I wanted to?"

"Yes," England agreed, not offering a further explanation because he was unsure of it himself. But he felt that if any of the Americas needed his help, he would gladly give it, and the frightened teenager seemed to need the most help at the moment. Despite the teen's annoying behavior, England could tell that the younger nation was mostly just confused and unable to communicate his own feelings. For reasons he didn't want to discuss in public, England sympathized.

The U.S. continued to stare at England in shock. It didn't look like he had ever expected England to choose him over Freddie. But after a moment's thought, the teen refused to take England up on his offer. "I'm not scared," he said through chattering teeth.

"If you say so," England sighed. "Honestly, I really don't understand how someone can continue to deny the obvious for so long."

Al snorted. "_You_ can't understand? Come on, England. You're sort of the Queen of Denial."

"What are you talking about?" England demanded. "And I'm not a queen."

"Oh, let's see. We've got your bad cooking, your 'invisible' friends, your hidden porn stash―," Al listed, ticking each item off on his fingers.

"―his low alcohol tolerance―," America added helpfully.

"―his secret love of fast food―," the U.S. mentioned between shivers.

"―and let's not forget his complete love affair with America," Al finished.

"My what?" England sputtered indignantly. "I'm not... I don't..."

"You don't wuv us?" Freddie asked with a sniffle.

"Of course, I..." England glanced around at the grinning Americas. "I mean, that's not necessarily the same thing. There are different sorts of love."

"Hey, it's okay. We're going to help you!" America promised, tossing his arm around England's shoulders in a way that made the jacket feel even warmer. It was definitely the heat that was making England's face flush. "It's what heroes do."

Al winked. "And cowboys like to ride off into the sunset together."

"I'm sensing some self-interest here," England muttered, trying to steer the conversation so that it was focused on America instead of his _slight_ crush on the other nation.

"Ah, don't worry, darling," Al drawled as he snaked an arm around England's waist. "It'll be good for you too," he whispered into England's ear.

England's face flared red but he was spared further indignities when the guide arrived and invited them to gather 'round for the start of the ghost tour. Al and America jumped at the word 'ghost,' proving they weren't as immune to fear as they pretended. They let go of England and held their flickering candles aloft, clearly hoping the flames would be enough to protect them from any colonial-era poltergeists.

"I'm scared, Engwand!" Freddie cried, although he sounded more cheerful than frightened. "Hold my hand?" he asked, reaching for England with a pleading expression.

Despite seeing through the child's blatant ruse, England held the boy's hand on the tour, promising him that he would be safe as long as he stayed by England's side. Al and America flanked them on either end, creating a warm island of flickering candlelight. The United States sulked behind them, although the teen took care not to fall_ too_ far behind.

As they passed each of the city's landmarks, England listened with half an ear to the various ghost stories. Some of the stories he knew, some were new, and some sounded like they had been fabricated out of whole cloth. But England didn't expect Americans to respect the supernatural, so he kept his grumbling to himself, and simply enjoyed the spooky atmosphere as the tour wound its way through the city.

Mostly, he enjoyed watching Al and America jump in fright at the end of each ghost story and then laugh it off a moment later. The U.S. stayed silent but moved closer and closer as the tour progressed, soon brushing against England's shoulder and then blindly reaching for England's hand. When the guide finished with the story of pirate ghosts who haunted the gaol, the United States of America—a global superpower with the world's second-largest army, third-largest population, and fourth-largest land area—clutched England's arm for dear life and _whimpered_. He buried his head against England's shoulder and refused to let go even after the tour ended and they walked to the car.

It wasn't until they reached the house that the U.S. seemed to realize what he was doing. He let go of England's arm and gave the other nation a shocked look before he glared, blushed, and ran up to his room. England chuckled as he heard the sound of a door slam upstairs. They put away coats and shoes and England decided it was Freddie's bedtime.

"Can I have a bedtime story?" Freddie asked sweetly. "I'm scared."

"You're not the least bit scared, you little minx," England replied, not sure if he should be amused or annoyed by the boy's blatant efforts to monopolize his affections.

"I am scared! But I'm not scared because I know you'll protect me," the boy said, his smile so trusting and innocent that England's heart melted at the sight.

"And I'll protect England!" America added.

"What, from _ghosts_?" England asked, enjoying the way America jumped into the air and then spun around, trying to see if any ghosts were closing in. England laughed. "You two might as well come up and listen to the bedtime story with Freddie. I know you're all going to end up sharing a bed with me anyway."

"Damn right," Al said with a wink. "And I want a bedtime story from your secret stash."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

America and Al somehow fit two queen beds into one of the guest bedrooms, giving them a bed long enough to hold everyone. England curled up in the center and read one of his favorite stories from the Tales of Beedle the Bard.

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful fountain. And once a year, every year, a person could bathe in the fountain and enjoy fair fortune forevermore," he began, describing the efforts of three witches who sought to find the fountain and bathe in its waters.

The first was sick and she desired a cure for an incurable disease. The second wanted to reclaim her riches after a terrible robbery. And the third sought love after her beloved deserted her. They ran into a knight and began their quest. They faced three difficult tests, but they overcame each one with the help of their new friends. By the time they finally reached the fountain, the witches no longer needed its help. The poor witch had brewed a potion to cure the sick witch and realized she could rely on her talents to restore her wealth. The third witch had left behind her memories of her former love. So they allowed the knight to bathe in the fountain, and, feeling lucky, he promptly asked for the third witch's hand in marriage.

England smiled as he finished the story. "The four lived long, happy lives, never realizing that the fountain's waters carried no enchantment at all."

He tucked Freddie under the sheets and fell asleep with the boy cradled in his arms. England wasn't surprised to be awakened sometime during the night as a shivering body climbed into bed next to him. Nor was he surprised when he woke up in the morning with the U.S. curled up against his side, clutching England for security like a teddy bear. What was surprising was how remarkably comfortable it felt.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

You guys were waiting for the obligatory England-in-America's-jacket scene, right? :3

Anyway, sorry for the slow update! As you can probably tell, the story is pretty close to the grand finale. And by grand finale, I mean that the real America will be showing up next chapter.

Credit to JK Rowling for the fairy tale. I like to imagine that England enjoys her writing as much as I do :)


	8. The Kiss

England shifted his head to the side and smiled fondly as he watched the United States sleep curled up next to him. The real America had always looked younger without his glasses and the U.S. looked younger still. Just a young nation desperately trying to prove himself in the world, unable to admit that he wanted England's attention even as he desperately craved it. At least when he was asleep he looked peaceful and content.

America sprawled out on the other bed, snoring softly with rumpled sheets piled around his arms and legs. Given his messy sleep habits, he had managed to toss and twine blankets across the entire queen bed.

Al and Freddie were nowhere to be seen. England was surprised that any part of America could be such early risers, but, then again, he knew America always woke up _very_ early for Christmas. England smiled to himself. Sometimes America was just like a child. And the way his eyes sparkled when he gave or received presents was simply adorable. As England reminisced about the 'real' America, he realized with a start that he had spent very little time on his ostensible goal of helping his ally return to his normal self. It just seemed so much easier to enjoy his holiday frolicking with the four Americas that liked him (even if one of them had a difficult time showing his affection).

And that was the issue, wasn't it? England wasn't sure he actually wanted the original America back. He liked flirting, playing, and laughing with _these_ Americas. He even enjoyed the teenager's snarky humor. Spending time with them was completely different from being with America, and the reason for the discrepancy mystified him. How could the whole possibly be less than the sum of his parts?

A soft yawn from the U.S. drew England's attention back to the teenager. The teen had started to stir, blinking sleepy blue eyes at England. As he slowly woke up, he retracted his arm from around England's waist and gave England an embarrassed look. "Uh, I think I got lost on the way to my bed," the teenager mumbled.

"Your bedroom must be in a foreign country then," England replied with a chuckle, referring to America's terrible knowledge of world geography. As an afterthought, he reached out to brush down a few stray hairs that had decided to mimic Nantucket.

The U.S. stared back with wide eyes. A moment later he settled down against his pillow and gave England a thoughtful glance. "How do you feel?" he asked cautiously. If he was concerned about the aftereffects of visiting Colonial Williamsburg, he had nothing to worry about. England's headache had disappeared before the ghost tour.

"I'm fine." England grinned. "I wasn't the one who spent half the night shivering, you know," he pointed out.

The teenager pouted. "Well, you've got that crease between your eyebrows you get when you're worried about something."

"Do I?" England brushed his hand against his own forehead and frowned, making the crease deeper. He internally debated discussing his worries with the United States and decided it was worth a try. If any of them were able to provide insight into America's mental process, he felt it would be this one. "I'm wondering what will happen when you're yourself again," England admitted softly.

"What do you want to happen?" the teen asked.

England was annoyed at first that the teenager had replied with a question. He opened his mouth to complain and then shut it again, realizing that it wasn't a bad question. What _did_ he want? _America_, the voice in his heart said, it just needed to convince his head.

"We could always return to the way it was before," the U.S. suggested when England took too long to answer.

"No," England immediately replied. "I didn't like the way we were."

"Neither did I," the U.S. admitted.

They stared at each other across the pillows, the bedroom silent other than America's soft snores. England felt his heart stir with hope as he stared into those enchanting blue depths. They had tried so many different relationships over the years; perhaps it was time to try something new. England opened his mouth to whisper the truth between the sheets. "I want this," he finally replied. "I want lazy mornings and lively rides and you holding my hand as you drag me to every tourist trap in the States."

"Me too." The U.S. blushed. "But when you say 'lively ride' do you mean...?"

England grinned. "Al told me that it's better to save a horse and ride―"

"―la la la, I can't hear you!" the U.S. cried as he jumped out of the bed, waking up America in the process. The teenager beat a hasty retreat that would have made France and Italy proud. England chuckled to himself.

"What got into him?" America asked sleepily. He slowly extricated himself from the maze of blankets, giving England a wonderful view of toned arms, taut buttocks, tight boxers, and tanned legs. As much as England denied it, there were certain advantages to being the world's erotic ambassador.

"Nothing much." England smiled. "I just forgot about your little Puritan streak."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

England enjoyed the rest of the lazy morning by sipping tea on the patio and watching Freddie race around in the backyard. He spent the time considering his next step in resolving America's current predicament. He now knew _how_ America had split himself into four different entities, though the _why_ remained a mystery. Given what England knew of America, the reason was probably boredom or curiosity or simple foolishness. America often acted first and thought of the consequences later.

"Look what I found!" Freddie called, laughing as he raced up the stairs to the patio with a rose in one hand and a brilliant smile on his face.

"Thank you, lad," England said as he accepted the rose from the child, taking care to hold the stem between the thorns. He smiled and sniffed the rose's lovely fragrance, but his enjoyment was ruined a moment later when he noticed the blood on Freddie's thumb. England frowned as he gently pulled the boy closer and examined the cut.

"I made an ouchie when I pulled it," Freddie explained.

"Then we'd better get you a plaster," England replied as he led the boy to the bathroom for a bit of first aid. He lifted Freddie onto the counter, carefully cleaned the cut, and covered it with one of America's band-aids. "Does it hurt?" he asked.

"A wittle bit."

England knelt down and kissed the top of the band-aid. "How about now?"

Freddie smiled. "All better!"

"Good, you should be more careful!" England chastised. He still remembered the day America had discovered poison ivy. That had been an awful day. Freddie just laughed and jumped down from the counter.

They both glanced toward the bathroom door as they heard a stream of loud curses coming from the computer room. England quickly slapped his hands over Freddie's ears to protect the child's innocence. The boy, however, had other plans. He wiggled out of England's grasp and raced out the door. England followed closely behind and arrived to find the United States doing... _something_... to the separator machine.

Al and America were watching with interest. It seemed that Al wanted to offer tips on cursing while America was more interested in the technology (even though his knowledge of technology was limited to the observation that "it seems to be powered by some sort of electricity").

"You call that cussin'?" Al asked with a grin. "I could teach you a word or two that would _really_ show that you mean business."

That brash boast drew a snort from England, who suddenly found himself the center of attention. "The timid taunts you pass off as curses in this country wouldn't even embarrass the Queen," he observed. "Though you shouldn't swear in front of Freddie," he quickly added. "Yes, that means you, Al."

"Ah, fiddlesticks," Al teased back, his lips quirking upwards in an easy grin.

"I don't understand why that didn't work. Reversing the polarity always works!" the U.S. complained, giving the machine a half-hearted kick.

"Maybe Engwand can fix it," Freddie suggested.

The U.S. looked skeptical. "Dude, England sucks at technology."

"Excuse me? I seem to recall that I was using twitter before you were," England noted irritably. "Or have you already forgotten your first follower?"

"Hell no! You looked really cute in that Robin outfit," America said cheerfully.

"Shut up," the U.S. complained. "I'm trying to fix this machine and it would be easier if you would all just _shut up_."

The Americas decided they had better things to do, but England stayed behind to watch. He waited patiently as the teenager fiddled with knobs and wires. He imagined that the teen was trying to install a reverse button, though he didn't pretend to understand alien technology. England simply sat and stared. He had learned to wait patiently back in the days when his next meal depended on his ability to stay silent. Waiting for the U.S. to give up and say something was much easier in comparison.

The teen gave in after less than half of hour of England's silent watching. "What do you want, England?" he demanded as he turned around and crossed his arms.

"You could have installed a reverse button days ago," England noted. "Why now?"

"Because what we have to say to each other shouldn't be like this," the U.S. replied, blushing as he averted his gaze.

England resisted the urge to sweep the American into his arms and kiss him. He didn't know that America had such a romantic streak. It was a pleasant discovery. Instead he gave the U.S. his fondest, softest smile. "Then I'd better let you get back to work."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

True to his word, England left the teenager alone for the rest of the afternoon, though he found himself in too much of a frazzle to concentrate on anything. He started reading a book then stopped when he realized he had read the same page five times without even noticing. He began to make a pot of tea, forgot about it for half an hour, and returned to find his tea over-steeped and lukewarm. England stared at the wall and tried to plan out what he wanted to say once America was whole again.

He wasn't ready. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready. They had spent so long dancing around each other that England was terrified to take the next step now. What he had with America wasn't great, but at least they were friendly. He didn't want to ruin that.

The teenager's announcement that he had finished installing the reverse button came far too soon for England. He nevertheless joined the other Americas in the computer room so he could say goodbye. Well... not _precisely_ goodbye. He didn't know what would happen to each of the Americas and their new memories, but he did know that the personality traits each represented weren't going to just disappear.

England opened his mouth to speak, but found his words stopped by a finger on his lips. The U.S. shook his head. "Whatever you want to say to me, save it for later," he insisted. Once he stepped into the machine, he gave England a genuinely happy look, the first one all weekend. "Parting is such sweet sorrow."

Al was the next to say his goodbyes. "I put the stuff I bought at the grocery store in the master bedroom's nightstand," he whispered into England's ear before giving him a passionate kiss on the lips. It tasted beautiful and wonderful, but a little sad. Al winked and stepped into the machine while England was still recovering from the breathless kiss.

"Don't worry, England," America promised, giving England a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. "The hero always gets the love interest."

"I'm not just a love interest!" England sputtered indignantly.

"Who ever said _you_ were the love interest?" America asked with a chuckle as he stepped into the machine, making it a rather tight squeeze.

"Hurry up, Freddie," Al called.

"No!" The child shook his head and latched onto England's leg. "I don't wanna."

"Freddie..." England said gently as he brushed his fingers through the boy's hair. "What's wrong, lad?"

The boy looked up at him with pleading eyes. "I don't wanna leave you."

"Oh, Freddie." England felt a lump in his throat as he carefully removed the boy from his leg and knelt down until they were on the same eye-level. "You're not leaving. You're simply returning to the way you ought to be. You have a duty to your people, you know, and none of you would be able to represent your country on your own."

The child nodded reluctantly. "Promise you'll still love me?"

"Always," England promised.

The U.S. snorted from the machine. "Seriously, a Harry Potter reference? Rowling's already replaced Shakespeare as your favorite, hasn't she."

"Stop ruining the moment," England complained as he nudged Freddie toward the machine. The boy stepped in and waved goodbye. England was reminded of all the times he had seen America waving at him from the shore. Even though the boy tried to look cheerful, his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Could you hit the big green button?" the U.S. asked.

England did so, albeit with a little trepidation. He took a few careful steps back and watched. The machine began to glow brighter and brighter with an inner light, brightening the room like a mini-nova until England had to look away. Whirling and whizzing noises filled his head, building up to a deafening crescendo.

_CRACK_.

In a flash, all the lights in the room winked out, leaving England and the machine in sudden darkness. He could still feel his hairs standing on edge from the static electricity in the air. "America? Did it work?" he called out.

"I don't think so," America replied.

"Nope," Al agreed.

"Well, shit," the U.S. complained. "I think I need Tony to add an extra power convertor."

After England fetched a candle, the Americas piled out of the machine and the U.S. placed an expletive-laden phone call to his alien friend. The older Americas seemed annoyed by the delay, though Freddie appeared pleased about the outcome.

"Another night with England!" he crowed gleefully. "Can I have a bedtime story?"

ߛ ߛ ߛ

"...true love's kiss broke the spell and they lived happily ever after," England finished the story and smiled down at the peacefully sleeping child. The lights in the house were still burnt out, so a single flickering candle lit the room. Telling bedtime stories by candlelight reminded England fondly of days long past. He loved modern lights for giving him a clear, strong light for his books, but there was something to be said for the soft, relaxing glow of a candle.

Taking care not to wake the child, England tiptoed out of the room. He left the candle behind because he knew Freddie was scared of the dark. England made his way through the hallway in darkness. Planning to change into his pajamas, he padded over to his own guest room and opened the door. A shriek came from within, startling England, though not as much as his entrance had frightened the United States. The teenager had dropped his flashlight and jumped straight into the air when England entered. He whirled around and gave England a guilty, scared look.

"What are you doing in here?" England asked.

"N-nothing," the teenager stuttered.

"Were you looking for me?"

"Uh..."

England sighed, grabbed the flashlight, and gently pulled the teen with him back to Freddie's room. "You're afraid of the dark too, aren't you?"

"No!" the U.S. protested. But despite his protest, he let England lead him to Freddie's bedroom and joined the other two nations on the bed. England blew out the candle and positioned himself between the two Americas so that both could hold onto him during the night if they needed to. England would never admit it, but he enjoyed how clingy and cuddly America became when he was frightened. "Don't you dare fall asleep before me," the U.S. demanded.

"Of course not," England replied. He stared at the ceiling and patiently waited for the teenager's breathing to even out into sleep. With a soft smile, England leaned over and gave the sleeping teen a peck on the forehead. "Good night, love," he murmured, before falling back onto his pillow and quickly losing himself to sleep as well.

ߛ ߛ ߛ

England woke up with a heavy arm around his waist and a heavy thought weighing down his chest. This was the day that America's alien friend would fix the machine, but he still wasn't sure that he was ready to deal with the real America. Still lost in thought, England quietly slipped out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. Whenever he needed a bit of advice, he always turned to Mr. Earl Gray.

Soon, the sound of the kettle boiling was the only noise in the otherwise silent house, filling England with a vague sense of unease. He relaxed a moment later as he heard someone coming down the stairs. Judging from the steps, it sounded like Al. England looked up with a smile and nearly dropped his cup when he recognized the young man's face. He had the guarded expression of the United States, but with a few additional years.

"What the hell are you doing here, England?" the real America demanded.


	9. The One

They stared at each other across the kitchen in tense silence as America fumed and England gathered his scattered thoughts. He didn't understand how America had returned to normal without any _warning_. Had he woken up next to the real America and not noticed the change in appearance in the dimly lit bedroom? But hadn't the machine _failed_? None of this made any sense. Even worse, it looked like England was going to have to explain the past weekend to an annoyed American with no memories of the progress they had made over the past few days. England didn't even know where to start.

"Is this about speeding up the Transatlantic Partnership?" America finally asked as he fully stepped into the kitchen. He opened the coffee cupboard and gaped in shock at the amount of tea. "Dude, switching my caffeine supply ain't gonna work."

"Have you really forgotten?" England asked a little desperately, his thick eyebrows knitting together with worry. "I've been here all weekend."

America turned to stare at him. "You've been hiding in my house _all weekend_?"

"No, of course not! You _agreed_ to let me stay. We visited the amusement park and the beach and Williamsburg. Don't you remember?"

"That doesn't sound like us," America said, though at least his expression shifted from shocked anger to puzzlement. "Williamsburg? Are you sure you didn't just get drunk and wander into my house at some point?"

England sighed. "_Yes_, Williamsburg. No, I didn't visit the pub," he replied, conveniently leaving out the night he _did_ visit the pub. If America had forgotten that particular detail, he wasn't going to remind him. "I don't understand why all of you assumed I couldn't handle it."

"Probably 'cause you have a habit of spitting up blood on the Fourth," America muttered under his breath. He stared at England and frowned. "And what do you mean _all_ of us?"

ߛ ߛ ߛ

It would be easier to explain, England decided, if they were actually standing in front of the separator machine. At least then America would stop suggesting that he had made up the story as part of a drunken fantasy. Not that England had drunken fantasies about multiple Americas! Certainly not. (Perhaps he would start after this weekend, but that was _besides the point_.)

"Look, I came to your house because I heard a child answer the telephone," England began to explain as he led America to the computer room. "And once I arrived, you, well, the other America, eventually said that you had a machine to split yourself into multiple parts," he said, gesturing to... what turned out to be an empty spot in the room.

"Huh," America said, staring at the blank wall.

England spun around and scoured the room, desperately looking for the machine. "It was here just yesterday!" he insisted. His heart sank; America was _definitely_ going to think he was suffering from an alcohol-induced delusion if he insisted that America had been split into several versions of himself by a non-existent machine.

"Dude, relax." America laughed as he gripped England's shoulder with a strong hand, preventing the other nation from racing around the room. "I know what you're talking about. Tony probably took it. Sometimes he upgrades stuff."

"Hmm, you did talk about your 'friend' installing a power converter after the reverse button failed," England replied thoughtfully. "But that still doesn't explain how you're back to normal."

America gave him a strange look. "I don't think we're thinking of the same machine. I mean, a reverse button would kinda ruin the whole point."

"How so?" England asked, feeling more confused by the moment. First America had returned to normal, now the machine that started it all had disappeared. England didn't know if the two events were related, but it seemed that the universe had conspired to give him a very difficult morning. And he hadn't even finished his tea.

"See, it's a machine that takes something you like and gets rid of the annoying stuff," America said with a grin and energetic hand gestures, his usual manner when discussing any type of technology. "I don't know why you'd wanna stick 'em back in."

"Really? I thought it was a separator of some sort," England said quietly.

"Yeah! It separates the good from the bad."

"...like taking mustard off bread."

America frowned. "Don't you _like_ mustard?"

"...or pulling sugar out of tea."

"Hey! Sweet tea is awesome."

"And if you used it on a _person_, it would remove their annoying traits," England said, feeling a rush of comprehension flood his body. To the extent he had considered it at all, he had assumed that the different Americas represented different eras. How wrong he was. Nothing annoyed England more than America's childishness, his narcissism, and his constant need to be a hero. In other words, Freddie, Al, and the other America. "But a personality trait isn't like mustard or sugar," he added thoughtfully, "so it would have to create a split version of the person to embody that trait."

"I guess? I hadn't really thought about it," America said, but England could tell from the way his gaze dropped to the ground that he was lying.

England called him on it. "You clearly did at some point, since you used it on yourself."

America scoffed and brushed the accusation aside. "Pfft. I think I would remember being split into two people."

"...four, actually."

"Four?!" America gaped.

"I think each of your annoying traits had its own personification."

"Huh." America crossed his arms and gave England a disbelieving look. "Pics or it didn't happen."

England sighed. It seemed strange that America could be even more annoying when there was just one of him, but perhaps it was the concentration of annoying traits that made America so insufferable. Not to mention the huge shift from three Americas who openly adored him to just one who constantly insulted him. "I didn't take any―" he admitted.

"Ah-hah!" America cried in triumph.

"―but if you check the date on your mobile, I think you'll find that you lost a week."

America's smug grin disappeared as soon as he pulled out his cell phone and confirmed that England was correct. "How...?" His frown deepened. "This must mean..."

"I was telling the truth."

"I'm a time traveler!" America shouted at the same time, his voice drowning out England's statement.

"You're an idiot." England planted his face into his hands and sighed deeply.

"Huh, looks like you _did_ visit the bar," America said as he started scrolling through his texts. "One of my phones is telling the other phone to go get the car." He pressed a few more buttons on his phone and started to grin. A few seconds later, the phone began to play the sound of a drunken England's ranting. England glanced up, was that a _video_?

"Stop playing that!" England demanded, half-lunging as he tried to grab the phone out of America's hands. He wasn't ready to explain his drunken kiss when America still didn't believe him about their weekend together.

America just laughed and danced away, holding the phone above his head and slightly out of England's reach. He grinned while England glared at him and the video continued to pay. England narrowed his eyes. That keep-away tactic wasn't going to work against him; not when he knew America's secret weakness. England lunged forward, sticking his hands out at the last moment to tickle the other nation's sides. America doubled over in helpless giggles and England snatched the phone triumphantly.

"Hehe-hey! Wa-ha-wait!" America called.

With a tight grip on his prize, England raced to the nearest bathroom and locked the door behind him, all before America could even recover. Safe, for the moment, England turned his attention to the phone. The video ended with him planting a sloppy wet kiss on the other America. He must have passed out at that point because America scooped him up bridal style and England _knew_ he would have complained if he were conscious. Once the video ended, England was shocked to discover even more pictures. Quickly scrolling past the photos of America carrying him back to the car, he paused for a long time when he found a picture with Freddie. The photo showed himself conked out in the backseat of the SUV, a bomber jacket covering his torso and Freddie asleep at his side. The cuteness was almost too much to handle.

"England, I know you're in there!" America shouted, knocking loudly on the bathroom door as he tried to force it open. "Come on, give it back!" The shouts and knocking grew louder and more desperate, but the Englishman couldn't pull himself away from the photo album. There were several more photos of the weekend, and every single one featured _him_. Pictures of him in his colonial outfit, and then in modern clothes later in the evening (though the only photo taken during the ghost tour was blurred). The U.S. was sneakier than England had given the teen credit for. Apparently the teen had been taking pictures each time he seemed to be fiddling with his phone.

England expected the photos to end with the Williamsburg trip, so he wasn't prepared to scroll past the last photo and find a picture of himself at the G8 conference in Germany several years earlier. Even more surprising, it was a truly gorgeous image. England had strolled along the River Spree during their lunch break and he looked relaxed and confident, smiling at a spark of light that England remembered as a kind pixie. The next few photos followed the same pattern; they were all beautiful, candid shots.

"Dude, this is totally not cool!" America shouted, pounding on the door. "Don't make me break down my own damn door."

England ignored him. Instead his cheeks flushed as he reached a collection of photos from a drunken night he couldn't remember. He knew that he tended to strip down to a ridiculous waiter outfit when he was completely trashed, but the number of times America had covered him with his bomber jacket came as a surprise. England really wished he _could_ remember those nights.

"Are you even _listening_ to me?" America asked as the pounding stopped.

"I can hear you just fine," England replied, satisfied that he had seen all he needed. "And I'll let you have your mobile back if you admit that I was right about this weekend."

"Okay, fine! You were right!" America replied a little too quickly. The poor nation was clearly worried about England's reaction to the secret trove of photos.

"See, lad, that wasn't so hard." England opened the door and found the phone instantly snatched out of his hands. America glared at him and stalked away. Perhaps England had pushed him too far. Even from the other side of the house, England could hear America stomp upstairs to his bedroom. The typical teenager behavior made England shake his head fondly. Now he understood what the United States had been going through. Because if you pulled away America's childish innocence and sweetness, stripped him of his confident self-infatuation, and deprived him of his heroic goals, all that was left was a sulking, confused teenager who was a little too snarky for his own good.

England debated following America upstairs, but somehow it didn't seem like the right moment to confess his long-buried feelings. He decided to give America some time alone. Admittedly, England probably shouldn't have stolen something as personal as a phone, but America had been secretly photographing him for years, so he felt that they were even in terms of invasions of privacy.

It felt strange to sit in the silent house and finish his cup of morning tea. One America normally was noisy enough on his own, and England had grown used to _four_ of them. So when he heard a noise from the computer room, his first thought was that it was just Freddie playing a video game. A moment later he remembered that Freddie was gone.

"Is that you, America?" England called, his body tensed as he approached what should have been an empty room.

"No, ―ing limey," a voice replied.

"Oh," England said in disdain, scowling at America's alien friend as he stepped into the room, "_it's you_."

The gray alien replied with a string of curse words, but otherwise ignored England. The separator machine was back in the room, looking for all appearances like it had never left. The alien focused on the machine, pushing a complicated string of glowing buttons as he continued to swear. England wasn't sure if the alien was swearing at _him_ or if he was swearing at the machine. Probably both.

"He doesn't need the machine," England said. "America's back to normal now."

"No, ―ing limey." The alien rolled his eyes at England.

"Are you saying he's _not_ back to normal? He seems his usual self."

The alien pressed more buttons. "No, ―ing limey."

"I'm starting to think those are the only three words you know."

"Hell no, ―ing limey."

The alien pushed one final button and then stalked over to England, jabbing at England's chest with a hand-like appendage that had far more than five fingers. "You ―ing broke him, you ―ing fix him, ―ing limey," the alien said, before briefly glowing and then disappearing into nothingness.

"How rude," England complained to empty air.

Deciding that he should let America know that the machine was back (and that his 'friend' Tony was still a rude asshole), England stalked upstairs and knocked on America's door. It seemed that America planned on sulking for the rest of the day, because England found that_ he_ was now the one stuck outside a locked door as the person inside ignored him.

England cleared his throat. "America, your alien friend came back with the machine," he announced. When that statement received no response, he added, "He's still a rude git, you know. He swears more than Romano, and I didn't even think that was possible." England waited for a response and then knocked again, growing increasingly annoyed by America's silence. "Honestly, America, just because you look like a teenager doesn't mean you need to sulk like one."

"Go away, England," America replied, his voice muffled through the door.

"We still need to talk about this weekend," England said, working up his courage. It wasn't fair to keep dancing away from a straight-out confession, but after hiding his feelings so long, he didn't know how to tell the truth anymore.

"I'm not apologizing for whatever annoying-me did," America grumbled, jumping to entirely the wrong conclusion.

England chuckled. "Your annoying traits were rather pleasant, actually." He paused and waited for America to reply, before adding, "Why don't you come out so I can fill you in on what happened? We can go out for lunch," he offered.

Drawn by the allure of food, America finally opened the door. But there was something subtly off about his expression―when had the real America ever looked so thoughtfully annoyed? England stared. America looked too much like the U.S. and not enough like his other personality traits.

The alien was right; America _hadn't_ returned to normal.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Hehe. No, this isn't the final chapter. It was going to be, but then it got too long. Sorry for getting it wrong, reviewer-who-asked-me-earlier!


	10. The Only

England wasn't surprised when America chose somewhere other than McDonald's for lunch. They pulled into a parking lot filled with pick-up trucks and America waved to the other regulars as they grabbed a small seat near the back. The decorations weren't much to look at, but the scents wafting from the kitchen smelled heavenly.

"Hey, Al! It's been a while, hun," the waitress greeted them cheerfully. "What can I get you and your friend?"

America smiled back and ordered for both of them. "And can we start with the hushpuppies?" he asked eagerly. He turned his smile to England once the waitress left with their order. "They've got the third best hushpuppies in the whole United States."

"Only the _third_ best?" England asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Yeah, I know. You deserve the best, but New Orleans is a long road trip."

"I... I doubt I'd like the city anyway," England replied, surprised by America's good mood and flattery. "Too French."

"Well, let me know if you ever change your mind. The French Quarter is actually the best part," America teased. "That's where they have gay Mardi Gras."

England blinked. He decided that America couldn't possibly be implying what England _thought_ he was implying. "Well, I suppose I should start at the beginning of the weekend," he said, preparing to give America a brief synopsis of their time together (leaving out, for the moment, details such as the frequency of kisses).

America waved away his explanation. "You don't need to. They left letters in my room, so I think I have the gist."

"They did?" England gasped, wondering if the letters were what Al and the other America meant when they said they would help him.

"Yep. Two letters and a crayon drawing. One of the letters said Al and the other just said America. I guess he was too lazy to come up with his own name," America said, trailing off when the waitress arrived with the hushpuppies. The fried cornmeal balls were tasty distractions; savory and warm, the chewy center contrasted nicely with the crunch of the outer layer. But England found it difficult to focus on food when America had just given him an intriguing morsel of information.

"So did they write anything... interesting?" he asked carefully between bites, half-curious and half-worried about what exactly the other Americas had said.

America leaned closer, and a grin slowly spread across his face. "Do you _really_ want to know, England? 'Cause one of 'em had a pretty extensive list of tips, if you know what I mean," he added with a wink.

England gaped. He had assumed that America was in a good mood because of the food, but this was more than just food-based happiness. America was undeniably _flirting_ with him. In fact, it reminded England of... "Al?" he asked.

"You can call me whatever you want," America said with another wink. The shameless flirting continued as their sandwiches arrived, and England found himself dealing with burning questions and flame-red cheeks. America was _definitely_ not back to normal, although England enjoyed the cheesy one-liners a little more than he cared to admit. Especially when America started making dirty jokes about southern hospitality. By the time they had polished off their sandwiches, America was even willing to share a few salacious details about the letter from Al.

"...and he said to always let you lead the way on horse rides because there's a better view from the _rear_," America finished as he paid the check. He even held the door for England as they left the diner, leaving the poor Englishman shocked speechless at the surfeit of gentlemanly behavior. "Oh, and he said there was a present for you in the nightstand," America added as he skipped happily to the car.

England cleared his throat. "Ah, I think I know what that is."

"I'm ready for nap time," America said as he opened the driver's side door and stood next to it. He gave England a confused look as England headed for the passenger's side. "Wait... you're letting me drive?" he asked eagerly.

"Why wouldn't I? It's your car."

"Oh, boy! Don't worry, England. I'm really good at Mario Kart!" America said as he jumped in and revved the engine.

"What does that have to do with..." England began to reply as he buckled his own seatbelt. "Good lord, America! Slow down, this isn't a racing game!" he cried, bracing himself as the SUV lurched onto the highway, weaving in and out of traffic at breakneck speeds.

"Zrrom, zrrom, zrroooom!" America yelled, his foot heavy on the gas.

"My god, watch out!" England shouted as they narrowly dodged a car merging onto the highway on their right. The ride back was a terrifying blur. Even though it took half the time, it felt like a terrifying eternity. "Hit the brake! Hit the brake!" England cried as they sped up America's long driveway at a breakneck speed.

"Where's the brake?!" America shouted back. A second later, the SUV skidded to a screeching stop as they plunged into the garage door. England jerked forward, his tight seatbelt squeezing all of the air out of his lungs. He landed back against his seat in recoil and tried to gasp for breath. The last thing he heard before everything went black was America saying cheerfully, "Oh, _that_ one's the brake."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

As England slowly regained consciousness, he first noticed a warm piece of cloth firmly pressed against his cheek. It felt like it was moving. "Mhuh?" he asked groggily.

"Don't worry, I've got you," America replied, his voice coming from just above England's head. England felt strong arms tightening under his knees and around his back. He was being carried up the stairs like a bride, or a princess, or maybe a princess bride.

"Put me down," England demanded, trying to wriggle out of America's grasp as they reached the top of the stairs. "I can walk."

"Ah, it's just a few more steps. Come on, let me be your hero." England stopped wiggling and looked up at America in shock. Now he understood why America wasn't back to normal; he was in one body again, but his personalities hadn't merged! He should have realized once America started flirting with him at the diner. Oblivious to England's whirling thoughts, America took advantage of the sudden silence to kick open the door to the guest room and he laid him, surprisingly gently, on the bed. The bed dipped as America sat next to England, looking subdued and apologetic. "So, is there anything I can get you? Some painkillers? An ice pack?"

"A cup of tea wouldn't go amiss," England said, more out of habit than anything else. America nodded and left him to sort out his thoughts in silence.

England stared at the ceiling and contemplated what to do next. He was a little tempted to sneak into America's room and read the letters from Al, Freddie, and the other America, but he resisted the urge. As England thought about the letters he frowned, pondering why the United States hadn't written anything to his alter ego. Did the U.S. not want them together after all? Or perhaps the U.S. had a slightly different plan. England sat upright and began to search through his room, remembering the way the teen had acted guilty when England caught him sneaking around in his bedroom. Maybe the U.S. had decided to write his letter to _England_.

After ransacking his luggage and the shelves, England finally spotted a wayward piece of paper sticking out of the corner of his book. He grabbed the letter, knocking the book to the floor in his haste. He unfolded the letter and read it eagerly. The handwriting was as messy as usual, but the careful wording reminded England that America had many fine writers, even if he didn't admire them properly.

_My dearest England,_

_The others and I have not been honest with you. _

_My first confession: I stepped into the machine fully aware of what it could do. The reasons for my actions are difficult to admit, though I believe you deserve to know why. For a long time, I was satisfied that we were friends and scared to upset what had taken us so long to rebuild. But as much as I yearned for something more, I could see that my presence often annoyed you. And so I thought that I could separate out the parts of me that were driving us apart. Unfortunately, the result was not as clean as I hoped._

_After you called, the others agreed on a plan. They wanted to test your reaction to each of us, in hopes of identifying the one you loved most. I thought it was a stupid plan and told them so. Truly, I was afraid because I knew the winner would not be me._

_You surprised us. We realized that none of us was the one you really wanted. Despite all of his faults, I think you truly love America. _

_I have written you this letter in case America does not tell you the truth after he returns. I don't think he will. There is a great vulnerability in admitting your feelings and although he values bravery, I think he's too scared of losing you to say anything. As much as it hurts to admit it, I suppose I have the advantage in that regard. There's nothing to fear when you know you've already lost._

_With all my heart,  
Alfred_

England's vision blurred slightly as he folded the letter and picked his book off the floor. He was still standing there, holding the book in one hand, when America returned with the tea. "Holy smokes, what happened in here?" America demanded, setting the tea cup on the nightstand as he gaped at the room's disheveled state.

"I found the fourth letter," England replied, a lump still in his throat.

America looked concerned. "Hey, he didn't say anything bad, did he? Because I can go back into that machine and kick his ass if you want."

"No." England shook his head and smiled at America. "No, actually, he told me something very important. And there's something important that I should tell you."

"Is it about that time―" America shut up quickly when England stepped close enough to press a finger against his lips.

"Alfred, let me finish or I might never work up the courage to tell you this again," he said softly, earning him a surprised stare and America's full attention. "The parts of you that annoy me are also some of your best traits. Yes, you can be childish and immature, but you're also innocent and sweet. And although I get sick of hearing hero-this and hero-that, I admire your earnest dedication to doing what you think is right. I'll admit that the whole world is a little tired of listening to you talk about how great you think you are, but your confidence is also very, well, it's quite attractive. I don't love you _despite_ your flaws. I love you _because_ of them."

America gaped. "You love me?"

"Every little bit of you," England replied, as he grabbed America's shirt and pulled him in for a kiss. He felt America's shocked inhale of breath and then America was wrapping arms around his waist and kissing him _back_. The kiss was hungry and sweet and everything he had ever wanted from America. In an instant, the world clicked into place.

When the kiss finally ended because they both needed oxygen, America stared back at him with sparkling eyes, his grin bright enough to light up the room. "I remember now! I remember!" he cried happily as he pulled England into a comfortable hug. "We had quite the weekend, huh?"

"It was lovely," England sighed happily as he rested his head against America's shoulder. It all seemed clear in retrospect. Sufficiently advanced technology was indistinguishable from magic, and everyone knew that a kiss could break any spell. Kissing each of the four Americas had started the process, but it took a single kiss to return everything to normal. Better than normal, actually.

"Hey, if your kisses can give me my memory back, do you think they can give me superpowers?" America asked eagerly. "Because that would be _awesome_."

It was hardly the most romantic proposition in the history of the world, but England felt too giddy to care. He smiled back. "Only one way to find out..."

ߛ ߛ ߛ

An hour later, when England realized that his tea had gone cold, he didn't even mind.


End file.
